Dysfunctional Equanimity

Jaime gazed at the scene set before them. "Well, at least we're alive."

As she stared at the carnage and utter destruction surrounding her, Alix could only marvel at how her friend's optimism and sanguinity had remained consistent throughout the entire ordeal. "Jaime, how do you do it?"

She shrugged in response. "I'm just naturally sunny."

The author of the above scribblings hit the delete button on her keyboard for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. "AAAAAUGH! No!"

Sometimes, this particular writer had days where the wellsprings of her mind flooded; she would sit for hours at her computer, click-clack-ing away at some wonderful, beautiful idea. An idea that had never been done before by any other author. An idea that would revolutionize the face of contemporary fiction. She would block out the maniacal punk rock blaring from her teenage daughter's stereo system; her husband's plaintive pleas to use the console—or to do anything else, no matter how appealing the activity—would fall upon deaf ears. These temporary distractions were of no meaning to her when she had attained that particular state of concentration.

However, today was not one of those days, and the writer was at the point where she could definitely do with some not-so-temporary distractions.

"This is not how it's supposed to go! Why can't I write something serious and moving for once? Why must my muse be afflicted with such a—a—?"

A cough could be heard from the doorway between the hallway and living room. "An anti-angst complex?"

Looking up, Hermione Potter grinned weakly. "Yes, Harry, I think that's it. I'm finding it next to impossible to write anything remotely angsty these days. This'll never be in on deadline. Why aren't you at work?"

"Nothing to be done. The life of a co-CEO is rather boring. There's a perfectly logical explanation for your block, Herm," Harry Potter replied thoughtfully, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe of the living room. "In order to write angst, I think you've got to be afflicted with some sort of inner turmoil and morbid depression. Unless there's something you want to tell me…"

Hermione smirked, standing up. "Yes, actually. I've been meaning to break the news to you for a while—I'm having a premature midlife crisis. I've decided to divorce you, run away with a twenty-year-old bodybuilder, and take up exotic dancing as a career."

"Pity," he said, walking towards her, "but it does fit in rather well with my plans to move to Milan and become a supermodel scout. Have a nice life, darling."

"Did I mention that I was handing all the credit cards over to Linda and handing full custody over to you?"

Hermione received no response, as Harry had chosen that moment to feign a heart attack.

"All right, for the sake of your health, I won't," she reassured him teasingly. "But consider that comeuppance for that jab about the Italian supermodels."

He smiled, wrapping his arms around her. "Who needs supermodels when I've got you?"

"I could still go for that bodybuilder, you know. He'd probably have better manners than you would. Or perhaps a cabana boy."

"Maybe so, but does the cabana boy know how to do this?" he asked devilishly, kissing her deeply.

She giggled. "I don't think so. And I don't think that your little supermodels can do what I do, either."

"Good." He grinned, pulling her in the general direction of the couch. "C'mon."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, there are about a billion reasons that we shouldn't be doing this right here, right now. Number one being that I have a deadline to meet. Number two being that our teenage daughter and her troupe of friends could walk in the door at any moment. And number three being that there's a perfectly good bed in the other room."

Harry thought for a moment. "Number one, screw the deadline. Number two, Linda is at field hockey practice and shouldn't be home for another two hours. And number three, it's been awhile since we've been on the couch. Nice for a change."

"Oh, as opposed to the floor of the old Ravenclaw common room, or your desk, or the kitchen table, or the roof, or—"

"We've never done it on the roof."

Hermione smiled. "I know. I wanted to see if you'd notice."

"Nice idea, though. Fancy hopping up there right now?"

"In the middle of broad daylight? I think not, Harry Potter."

"Well, then, the couch looks pretty good now, doesn't it?"

"You're not going to give up on this, are you?"

"I doubt it."

"Fine." She pulled him onto the couch by the collar of his shirt. "Let's see what it is that you can do, or you're running the risk of being replaced by that cabana boy."

He laughed as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Oh, I can't wait to prove you wrong..."

"Neither can I," she murmured as he covered her mouth with his.

*

"Linda, for God's sake, would you slow down?"

The screech of irritation that Joey Malfoy received in reply could be heard for miles; two five-inch platforms suddenly halted their forward propulsion as Linda Potter stopped on the sidewalk, turned around, and waited impatiently for her two cohorts to catch up. "What, Joey, are you planning to get lost on the way home?"

"No, but you're running in platforms, and that's pretty damn dangerous," Bobby Weasley puffed, running up alongside her. "We don't need another ankle-twisting incident."

Linda hastily brushed a tear from her eye, inadvertently smudging her mascara. "Must you remind me, after the day I've had?"

Joey Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Linda, we know. It's not just your problem."

"Yes, it is just my problem! This whole thing is all my fault, and my parents are going to kill me!" Linda replied dramatically, speeding up again. "All I want to do is go home."

"Where the hell did you think we were going, Rhode Island?" Joey asked sarcastically, as the three turned onto Carlton Boulevard.

Linda sniffled, tossing a long lock of black hair out of her face. "If we wound up in Rhode Island right now, it wouldn't surprise me one bit. I don't think anything could shock me right now. This day can't possibly get any worse."

"Yeah, it could," Joey offered helpfully. "Your shirt could clash horribly with your skirt." He motioned to the white button-down elbow-sleeve shirt and olive-green suede skirt. "But it doesn't."

"Way to go, Don Juan," Bobby muttered distastefully. "Seriously, Lin, it's not the worst thing that's ever happened."

Linda plopped down on the curb in front of number 27, dropped her purse at her side, and threw her head into her hands. "Name something more awful, and I'll give you ten bucks."

"Well," Joey said, kneeling in front of her, "there's always the time in eighth grade when Miss Radial wouldn't let you out of Algebra class and you wound up puking all over me."

Bobby sat down on her other side. "Can't forget the ninth grade formal, when Mark Addison said that he was going to get you some punch before the last dance, and then wound up dancing with Felicia Sanchez."

"Yeah, Linda, that was pretty bad," Joey agreed, patting her head.

Linda looked up at her two best friends, glaring. "Number one, don't touch the hair. Number two, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't say that name to me right now, guys."

"What, Felicia Sanchez?" Joey asked, without thinking. The look that Linda sent at him was enough to make him recoil in a type of fear he hadn't felt since the three of them had faced down Nilock that summer.

Bobby shook his head disapprovingly at Joey, fiddling with the top button of his ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt. "Way to go, Mr. Sensitivity. And you call yourself charismatic…"

"Shut up," Joey retorted. He sat down on Linda's other side, throwing his arm across her bent shoulders. "Hey, Lin?"

Linda looked up, the trail left by a single tear visible on her face. "Yeah?"

"Kid, listen. If you're so damn adamant about the totally dismal state of this day, why don't you just go in and tell your parents what happened?"

"For once, I've got to agree," Bobby chimed in.

Linda smiled reassuringly at both of them. "All right," she said, standing up, "I will. What's the worst that could happen—I find them in the throes of mad, passionate sex on the living-room couch?"

Joey shrugged. "It's been known to happen. Did I tell you guys what I found my parents doing yesterday morning?"

"Several times," Bobby answered with the air of one who really does not care to hear his aunt and uncle's sexual exploits recounted yet again.

Joey shook his head as Linda turned the door handle. "Man, I didn't think that was geometrically possible."

"Joey, you're so naïve," Linda commented as they stepped into the foyer. "For someone who's controlled by his hormones for a majority of the time, that is…"

"So what the hell do you think you are, goddamn Miss September?" Joey retorted.

Bobby had a momentary inner struggle, but he managed to repress the urge to say, "You wish, don't you?" as they walked down the hall.

"Joey, if you even think for one moment—" Linda started, but stopped in her tracks at the doorway of the living room. In there, her parents were in the couch, engaging in what seemed to be a massive make-out session.

Linda surveyed the scene before her, eyes wide in shock.

"Bloody fucking hell..." she muttered, then raced off to her bedroom.

*

Left alone in the hallway and minus the one person who could possibly rectify the situation at hand, the two boys gaped for a moment, before Bobby shut the door.

"You know what we've gotta do, right?" Joey asked.

Bobby shrugged. "No, what?"

"I think—I think we've got to go talk to her or something," Joey answered slowly. "Make sure that she doesn't have a nervous breakdown, or, um, try to off herself."

Bobby had started down the hall, and was banging on the door to Linda's room. "Linda! Linda, I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"

A sniffle was audible. "It's open, dumb-ass."

Bobby's freckles seemed to blend together as Joey opened the door. "Oh. Right."

The first thing one would notice upon entering Linda's room would be the sheer abundance of the color green. Green walls, leaf-patterned carpeting, green bedspread, and green woodwork ("Looks like mold," was Joey's usual comment) were some of the outstanding features. Numerous posters—The Beatles and Sibby Malone and the Electric Piccolos being the most protuberant—decorated the walls; Glo-Starz covered the ceiling; and random photos were stashed all over the place. The door of the closet was ajar, and several (hundred) pairs of shoes were tumbling out of it. And in the middle of it all, the green-clad Linda Potter sat cross-legged on the bed, staring moodily out the window. She didn't even turn as she spoke. "What do you want?"

Joey sighed, sitting down next to her on the bed. "Linda, you seriously need to chill out right now."

"Definitely," Bobby agreed, collapsing in an olive armchair. "The last thing we need right now is Stressed Out Bitch v2.7, you know."

Linda sniffled. "Easy for you to say, you haven't ruined your own lives."

"To the contrary, Linda," Bobby volunteered. "I'm just as much to blame as you are. Well, I jumped in, at least."

"Yeah," Joey agreed, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders, "and I wasn't much help, either."

Bobby looked up quizzically. "What exactly did happen today, Linda?"

Linda drew a deep breath, aware that both Joey and Bobby were watching. "Well, I may as well start at the beginning…"

*

Eight hours earlier:

"Remind me again why I'm here."

Joey looked at Linda wearily. "Because it's the first day of school, and usually such an event requires you to be in attendance during homeroom."

Linda snorted derisively, leaning back in her seat. "Not that. I know that. What I mean is, why are we starting our sophomore year in an American public school when we could be—"

"Linda, stop right there," Joey warned. "Do you want all of Homeroom 10D to know where we were this summer?"

"Honestly, I really couldn't care less if they did." Linda thoughtfully braided a small section of red-streaked raven hair. "It's pointless, after all. I mean, we're world famous." She lowered her voice on the last part.

"Not in this world," Joey countered. "In this universe, we're plain old Joey Manchester and Linda Patrickson, two smart-ass denizens of Marple, Massachusetts, who just happen to cause a great deal of trouble."

"Don't forget poor Bobby Waltham of the ever-lamentable Homeroom 10G," Linda added. "But doesn't this seem just the tiniest bit bizarre at all to you?"

"Actually, it does," Joey said. "But what else are we supposed to do?"

"I've got no idea," Linda replied as Mr. Quigley handed her a schedule. "Absolutely no idea."

Joey gave his schedule a disheartened glance. "I could be at home sleeping instead of having first period Pre-Calc, that's what."

"So could I. We're in the same class," Linda said gloomily. "Have I ever told you how much I truly hate math?"

Joey slowly rose from his seat as the bell rang. "Several times, Linda. Several."

Linda groaned as she stood up. "This is just plain wrong."

Joey stopped in the doorway, causing most of the pupils with surnames from L to Q to squish by him, single file. "Linda, I told you already—"

"No, not that." Linda, too, pushed past him. "I mean holding math classes first thing in the morning. That's a fate worse than Avada Kedavra."

Leslie MacDonough, a plump brunette girl who played right attack on the field hockey team with Linda, halted momentarily. "What?"

"Er… a trip to Nevada," Linda ad-libbed, biting her lip. "Our trip to Nevada we took this summer, that is."

Leslie surveyed Linda suspiciously. "Is that where you were all vacation? When you should have been at practice?"

Joey leaned against the doorframe in almost morbid interest as Linda frantically searched for an explanation. "Er, well, I talked to Wendy Fiskdale about that, and she said—"

"Linda," Leslie started, "Wendy isn't the captain. You're supposed to be."

"Well, yes, but—" Linda stopped. "What do you mean supposed to be?"

Leslie shook her head. "How can you have a team if your captain doesn't bother to show up? We had to elect a new one, Lin."

"Who?" Linda spluttered.

Leslie opened her mouth to answer, but her voice wasn't the one that answered; in fact, it was just about the last voice that Linda wanted to hear.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't little Miss Patrickson, she who is far too good to attend summer practices."

Linda's green eyes blazed. "What do you want, Sanchez?"

Tall, thin, and frizzy, Felicia Sanchez was the most popular girl in the tenth grade. A stunning wardrobe, equally amazing figure, and amazing accomplishments on the hockey field more than made up for her lack of honesty and dismal grades in the social hierarchy. Of course, she and Linda were at each other's throats constantly, competing for everything but the kitchen sink. Now, the painted mouth opened in a catlike yawn.

"Merely to inform the former captain of the hockey squad that her services are no longer needed," Felicia drawled, accentuating each syllable.

Linda gritted her teeth. "Get over yourself, Fellatio."

"Ooh, quite the bitch, aren't we?" Felicia shot back. "No wonder you were unanimously voted out of your position."

"So, I'm not captain anymore." Linda was determined to get the better of Felicia. "So, what? It's nothing more than a ceremonial position. You can have it, for all I care. God knows you'll never have anything else."

"But that's just it," Felicia continued. "When I say position, I don't mean the one as captain. I mean to say that you are no longer a member of the team."

At this statement, Joey's jaw dropped right along with Linda's. "There's no way you can do that," he said. "Linda was elected All-State last year! You'll be awful without her!"

Felicia's heavily outlined eyes made their way over to Joey with considerable interest. "Hi, Joey. How's it going?"

He scowled. "Just fine, bitch goddess."

"Feisty. I like that." Felicia grinned an awful, too-perfect grin.

"Note to self: become meek and mild," Joey muttered just loud enough for Linda to hear.

"I cannot believe this," Linda said disgustedly. "I leave for a month and you elect Fellatio Sanchez to be captain?"

Leslie, who had been trying to sneak away, cringed. "Linda, well, you weren't there, and besides you, Felicia's been on the team the longest—"

"So much for loyalty," Linda interrupted, grabbing Joey by the sleeve of his tee shirt and pulling him away from the door. "Good luck this season, Leslie. With the leadership you've got, you're sure going to need it."

Joey waited until they had gotten a considerable distance between themselves and Felicia before bursting. "Linda, who the hell do they honestly think they are? I mean, there's Leslie MacDonough, who won't say boo if someone doesn't tell her to, and Felicia has to be the most disagreeable, creepiest, most profligate bottom-feeder I've ever met…"

"That's one way of putting it," Linda said darkly as Bobby caught up to them, a look of pure apprehension on his face.

"It's a moral transgression, I tell you! Math, this early in the morning!" he exclaimed, jabbing at his schedule. "Are you two in my Pre-Calc class, by any stroke of luck?"

Joey nodded as Linda let out a groan of frustration. "If I had any sense, I'd blast that girl into oblivion…"

Noticing the way Linda's hand was creeping towards the partition of her purse meant to hold pens, Bobby quickly slapped it away. "But you don't have any sense, and you're not going to blast whoever it is into oblivion, although I rather suspect that it's Felicia Sanchez, in which case I wouldn't be too concerned."

"Damn right," Linda muttered as they walked into room 415. "Damn right. Oh, no—"

"What?" Joey asked, confused by the stricken expression on Linda's face.

Linda pointed a shaking finger towards the front of the room. "Look."

Bobby went white as a sheet. "Oh, shit," he groaned. "There goes my year…"

Sitting in the teacher's chair was a sight that would have struck fear into the heart of any sensible student at Marple High School. Cynthia Radial was five feet, eleven inches of formidable Patrickson-hating, Manchester-despising, Waltham-loathing veteran Math teacher. Her deep, reverberating voice was far from effeminate, and her greeting lacked warmth.

"Well, if it isn't the Terrible Trio," Radial boomed malevolently. "Patrickson, Manchester, and Waltham. How convenient that you all walk in together, just in time to get placed in my special seats. Right up here, front of the room, so I can keep my eyes on you at all times. There will be none of that foolish note passing and snickering I dealt with two years ago. Now go! Sit! Now!"

Joey, Linda, and Bobby scrambled to their seats. "Great," Joey murmured. "Just great."

"I said no talking, Mr. Manchester!"

Linda slowly laid her head down on the desk; it was going to be a long year.

*

"I can successfully say," Linda said later that day, "that this has, so far, been the worst day of my life."

"Relax," Joey replied, patting her on the shoulder as they entered the gymnasium. "So, you wound up with Radial first period. So, you accidentally wrote Potter instead of Patrickson on most of your registration forms. So, Felicia Sanchez has been in three of your classes. So—"

"Thanks ever so much for the encouragement, Joey," Linda said sarcastically. "It really helps, you know. And now we've got to attend this blasted pep rally."

"Better than being in class," Bobby broke in as they found seats.

Linda sighed as she sat down. "But pep rallies are so stupid. I don't care about the football team, I don't care about the cross-country team—"

"Hey!" Joey exclaimed, looking offended.

"—I don't care about the soccer team—"

Bobby scowled.

"—and I definitely don't care about the field hockey team," Linda finished.

"You used to," Joey pointed out.

Linda hit him. "Very much beside the point."

"Attention, attention!" The voice of Principal Penelope Garramond rang clear. "Would you all rise for the playing of the national anthem?"

As the crowd stood up, Linda gasped. "Oh, no!"

"What is it now?" Bobby asked impatiently.

Linda pointed at the top right-hand section of the bleachers, horror-stricken. "Look!"

Joey turned. "So, what? That's just where the band's sit—oh."

"Er, the class we're missing right now is band, right?" Bobby asked nervously.

"Uh-huh." Linda nodded darkly. "Well, there goes one important grade for the semester."

"Great," Joey said as the masses became seated once more. "Just great."

The three sat quietly through the typical presentations from the football team and cheerleading squad, not even bothering with their usual wisecracks about crack-babies and drug testing. Not even Football Captain Steve Robenheim's "Duh, uh, we're gonna kill" speech elicited laughter. Finally, the field hockey team rose from its block in the lower bleachers and took center stage. Felicia Sanchez accepted the microphone with much pomp, and grinned that awful grin once again.

"Hi!" she said into the microphone, her nasal voice echoing throughout the gym. "I'm Felicia Sanchez, and I'm the new captain of the Marple High School Field Hockey team. As most of you may know, the captain this year was supposed to be Linda Patrickson, but apparently, she's too good to show up to practice." Her gaze settled on Linda.

Both Bobby and Joey automatically put out their arms to stop Linda from doing anything stupid or rash, but it was too late. In a haze of anger, embarrassment, and rage, she'd already fumbled through her pocketbook and drawn out her wand. Standing on her seat, she pointed it directly at Felicia.

"Obliviate," she hissed, eyes narrowing as the spell passed over her lips.

Usually, the visibility of the Memory Charm was low; a small, silver stream of light, and the unfortunate victim was reduced to a babbling sack of flesh. However, the explosion that erupted from the tip of Linda's wand was far from small and silver. A huge, purple ray flashed out of the end, hitting Felicia squarely in the forehead. But it didn't stop there…

After hitting her archenemy, Linda's spell bounced and hit the other ten girls standing in the middle of the gym, knocking them all to the ground.

Linda looked at her wand in disbelief. "Uh-oh…"

By this time, Joey had already pulled his own wand out of his back pants pocket. "Linda, what the hell was that?"

"I don't know," Linda replied, shaking.

Bobby straightened up; he'd been rummaging through his backpack in order to find his own wand. "What are we going to do?"

Joey stood thoughtfully, ignoring the terrified glances everyone had been giving the group. "There's only one thing I can think of, and that's to Memory-Charm them all."

"Are you sure?" Bobby asked.

Linda nodded. "He's right. It's the only way. Come on, let's get this over with. On the count of three."

"One…"

"Two…"

"Three…"

"Obliviate!"

Just as before, an unexpected reaction occurred; Linda's wand once again emitted a huge snake of light. Only this time, it was joined by Bobby's and Joey's. When the resulting smoke cleared, there were three people left standing in the gymnasium.

Bobby looked around. "So, what do we do now?"

"I think we tell them what we want them to remember," Joey said nervously. "Which is…"

"Anything," Linda answered. "In fact, we could tell them that Linda Patrickson, Joey Manchester, and Bobby Waltham don't even exist!"

Unfortunately, she said this a little too loudly; suddenly, figures began standing up all around them.

"Smooth move, Linda!" Joey hissed. "Now what?"

Linda blanched. "We get the hell out of here, that's what." She ran for the door, trailed closely by Bobby.

Joey started to follow, then thought better of it. This could be the only chance I ever get to do this, he thought. I've got to take it.

Without another moment's thought, he pointed his wand at Cynthia Radial.

"Transfigurus aggoat!" he said gleefully. After a few seconds, the staggering Cynthia Radial no longer stood; where she had been, a rather large, fat goat now chewed on a sweater.

"Serves you right," he muttered, then dashed for the door.