Sailor Moon Fan Fiction ❯ My Name Is Serena ❯ From Blown Speakers ( Chapter 1 )

My Name Is Serena

Part 1 - From Blown Speakers

by Louise Proell

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May 9, 2006





Today begins my official foray into the real world.
11 a.m. I had the thought while battling the last traces of my hangover, warily slurping my melted serving of Ben & Jerry's Half Baked ice cream. I studied the barely coherent scribbles before abandoning any attempts at enjoying the now-liquid dessert. I crawled back into the middle of my bed, half-burying myself under the covers, even though it was close to 31° C outside. My gigantic headache was threatening to drive me mad, and even the two Extra-Strength Tylenol pills that I took were having trouble battling it. My mouth felt like an ashtray, and the ice cream made it stickier, leaving an unpleasant residue of its original sweet taste.

I bet Darien Shields had never gotten this drunk, and felt like he was thrown into a garbage dump to stew for days, being occasionally approached by coyotes and stray dogs who would scratch at your hair, before cowering away from your BO.

Why was I even thinking about the loathsome beast?

Of course it was because my mother happened to mention him yesterday: "Serena, you know Martha Shields?" she inquired innocently.

I stared at her, sputtering slightly. "Mom, of course I know Mrs Shields. We've lived next to them nearly my whole life." I stared at her disbelievingly for a second. My curiosity won me over, however, so I asked "What about her?"

My mother was a beautiful woman, with long hair that was so black it was almost purple. Her round eyes looked at me dreamily. Ever since she broke her leg three weeks ago (trying to climb a tree to rescue our old cat Luna), she has been unusually loopy. No doubt from the painkillers. I remembered a conversation I had with her about a week ago where she asked how was the dog about three times in our ten minutes. I had to keep reminding her I didn't have a dog.

"--she's having a birthday party on the second of May, and she told me to invite you. Do you know Darien is coming, too. Do you remember Darien Shields...he used to play with Sammy... Ooh, look at that girl's dress." She pointed at Jessica Langsman, who was wearing a very strapless, very tight pink dress. I knew her from the couple of times we grabbed a coffee to bitch about a prof, and I would have waved, but she seemed too preoccupied trying to keep her dress from sliding down her body to notice my greeting.

My dad, who was standing to the right of me, leaned in discreetly. "By the way, she means the twenty second of May, right?" He caught my eye, and we giggled slightly hysterically while my mom stared at the cocoon-like wrap that was Jessica's dress.

I groaned at the event that followed it. Mom and Dad left for Mississauga at around 9.30, when the other graduates and I went to get plastered. There were a number of parties going on, so there was no lack of venues to attend. I remembered chatting up people I had only seen in my classes once or twice, bouncing happily to some trendy song (this was the College of Art and Design), and then promiscuously letting a guy I've had my eye on grope me while the party continued.




2 p.m. It seemed my hangover had miraculously cleared. I tested the waters by venturing into my tiny kitchen, searching around for the milk carton and then drinking its contents thirstily. I was wearing only my oversize grey t-shirt, and the tiles felt pleasantly cool. I didn't have a working air conditioner, because I couldn't afford to foot the electricity bill, so most days I was left in stifling heat. My only source of cool breathe was the $1.50 little hand-fan I bought in Chinatown last summer. I put the carton back into the fridge, and walked over to the shabby couch.

It occurred to me that almost everything in the living room had gotten either extremely ratty or was bought second-hand. I may have felt a bit ashamed, but unlike my peers, I was still in that anti-materialism place that many recent graduates face, mostly due to the lack of funds to purchase cool designer wears.

I laid down on the coffee-colored furniture, hoping lack of movement would not make me so hot. My t-shirt was practically sticking to my back by now, as I stretched my legs. Unfortunately I didn't live downtown, so any fun adventures could not be had unless I hopped on the TTC. I was in no state to make trips, of course, but I was feeling a bit restless. I had been in bed for virtually 12 hours, and although I had never shown any athletic streak before, thoughts of running filled my mind. Hmm, I wasn't resorting to that unless absolutely necessary.

But feel I really need the fresh air.

Thoughts of Big Mac's and frosty milkshakes entered my mind. There was a MacDonald's on Runnymede and Bloor, which was only about 5 minutes away.

No, no, must resist. Images of my sticky, gooey thighs flashed before my eyes. But then, I had ice cream today already, didn't I? What would a burger matter at this point?

Besides, the walk there and back will burn it all off anyway, right? Exactly.




7 p.m. When I came back from my fast food gorge, I saw the answering machine flashing. I rushed over to it right away, excited at the prospect of someone calling me.  
"Serena, you haven't forgotten Jed's concert, have you? I'll be at High Park at 7.30. Inside the station, where the trains are," she emphasized, before clicking off. Humph. OK, so there was a time where we arranged to meet at the Spadina subway station. I thought I made it clear that I would be waiting outside, right beside the entrance. I had waited for 45-minutes, confused because Lita was never late. Finally I left, pissed off at being kept waiting. Later that day I got a phone call from Lita, who said she was waiting for an hour inside where the train were. We bickered for half an hour, both finally relenting and saying that in this case we were both wrong, and it was better to leave it at that.

But yes, I did forget Jed's concert. I'm sure I had even marked it in my date-book (pathetically unnecessary since do not lead busy, glamorous life, no matter how much wish to believe otherwise), but last night, all thoughts went out the window as I finally got to the day of graduating.

Jed was a guy I've worked with at Pete's. He was your token musician. He barely worked (sometimes he'd clock in about 5 hours per week), but he never went without his necessities (booze, drugs, fantastic parties, girls, and enough time to write and perform music). He didn't speak with his parents so he couldn't get the money from them, and frankly, although Raging Dolls were fairly big in the underground music scene in Toronto (and a bit in Vancouver), I severely doubted he made enough from CD and concert sales to live as comfortably as he did.

One of the things that led us together was Jed's habit of reading and his extensive knowledge of pop culture, which he recounted oh so wittily. On our first meeting we ended up discussing Jay McInerney, the sullied author of "Bright Lights, Big City." We argued over whether it was right for his literary reputation to be effected by his frequent and drunken club hopping. Jed eloquently concluded that "it didn't matter what he did, but with shit like Model Behavior, he doesn't warrant a reputation."

I called Lita back, and left a message saying, yes, I did remember and yes, I will meet her at the trains at 7.30, and goodbye.

Next I spent thirty minutes deciding what to wear. Would it be too cliche to wear all black?

Or maybe I should dig up my vintage Beatles shirt? Or would that be an even bigger cliche?

Wish dress rules were more clear, and not so dependent on what each individual can or can't get away with. It's like that plaid pair of pants I have in my closet. Seeing a very skinny girl with a mohawk wearing an almost identical pair gave me courage to unearth my own, but knowledge that I don't have the right confidence or attitude made me hide them again.


Also, very much like Elsie, who regularly shows up wearing items like red knee-high stiletto boots, jean cut-offs the size of a belt, and other similarly daring clothes. Know that would never be able to pull off the bright red stiletto boots ever, as would end up feeling like a fool, resulting in others seeing me in same manner.

Eventually I settled on jeans with an army green t-shirt. I debated whether or not to put on my pink sandals, but in the end decided to wear them. They're a bit of a pain, but make my feet look nice and elegant.

Just off.






2 a.m. Weird day. Or night, more like.

My feet are on the brink of death. Wearing shoes in hopes of boosting confidence has failed, resulting in unsightly and painful blisters. Also very confused (re: Jed). Am also enraged that men (except maybe transvestites) don't know how hard we girls work and what horrible pain we endure to look our best. It's especially unrewarding when no one notices your efforts, so you trudge home feeling not only bruised and sore, but also ugly and rejected.

Except maybe Jed did notice? What else would explain his sudden flirtatious behaviors towards self? Other times he barely acknowledged me, focusing instead one his trailing groupies, who, although very sexy and brainless, happen to be very musically informed. Feel a bit like an idiot when they start comparing the music scene in Vancouver and here in Toronto. Random names keep flying over head, while Jed and his band mates or similar musician friends (what is it about musicians? Even if you wouldn't particularly find them attractive in daylight in normal clothes, you find yourself simpering with the best of the hanger-ons whenever they open their mouths--think it is because of the talent and way with instruments; it mirrors sex, maybe?) discuss the effect--both positive and negative--of the rising of indie bands. Although it's very sexy to see a number of attractive men get passionate and rowdy.

The evening started off fine; I met Lita exactly on time, and she moaned about selling out her convictions for a pay-cheque, not being better than cigarette or gun lobbyists, while I struggled to calm her down, not convinced that eating cheese and marketing cigarettes were on the same level of evil.

When we got to the Bovine Sex Club, it was already crowded, full of gyrating model-type girls in tight dresses and fashionably slacker men with little goatees, shouting over the roar into their black RAZRs.

We sat down, ordered a Manhattan and Vodka Martini, and a pitcher of beer for later. We were still (discreetly) making fun of the Barbie in the pink tube-top who was talking with a red-haired girl who looked just as vapid, when we were told that RRTs were about to perform. Never having heard of them, we settled in to listen, knowing better than to be obnoxious and continue our conversation.

The RRTs didn't turn out to be half-bad, if too loud and choppy. They performed a set of five songs, including the gem "Kill Me But Don't Take The Keys To My Car," a number that was so fast and loud that I failed to understand if it really was about the keys to his car.

"And, now! It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, performing for the first time at Bovine--the Raging Dolls!" The pixie-looking man disappeared behind the curtains as four guys walked on stage to massive applause. Jed, looking cool, nodded at the man standing at the microphone--Allan--who leaned to the microphone, and said, "Hi, everyone. Great to be here. We'll start off with 'Seven Days.'"

After the set, felt very cool as Jed specifically came up to our table, still sweaty from the performance. "Well?" he asked, grinning at me and Lita. I was on my fourth Martini and was feeling a bit tipsy.

"Fantastic!" I screeched, gesturing in what I thought was impressive way, spilling some of my drink on a girl sitting at the next table. Quickly turned around and pretended had nothing to do with her wet shirt. "Loved... the, uh, songs! Very nice, very ener--uhh, energetically played!" Very surprised can become so harebrained after only three drinks. Also is probably not good to be drunk already when was just recovering from heavy night of drinking earlier in the day. Feel like an alcoholic.

Lita was either less drunk than self, or more accustomed to the alcohol because she said something I didn't catch, at which Jed laughed.

"Guys, over here!" he shouted at someone, who I couldn't see as was off in fantasy world. Within seconds, we were joined by Jed's band mates, along with who were the two girls we were making fun off. Felt very uncomfortable and hoped they didn't hear our comments as am too drunk to have a confrontation. Also think that drink does not leave me off wittier.

The Barbie was talking to Mal, a very burly guy with white-blonde hair (do not think he gets it from the bottle, but with the movement of the metrosexuals, am not so sure anymore), while the redhead was clinging to Allan. I always thought he was a bit plain-looking and weird but has refrained from saying anything to Jed, as know with my luck, they would turn out to be best of friends and Jed would be pissed off, leaving me with one less friend.

"Hey, Serena," Andrew, the drummer, said, smiling down at me. "Enjoy the show?" Everyone pulled up chairs to sit down as I grinned stupidly at him. Unexpectedly, Jed took the chair on my right, shuffling as close as possible to me. Thought was romantic or lust-filled gesture but realized it was to allow everyone else to crowd around the table. "So why don't you tell me what you liked best?" he whispered into my ear. The vodka and the near proximity of attractive male resulted in nervous sex-charged flip in stomach. Realize it has been too long since had sex, as being fused with lust at innocent contact with male friend due to crowded spaces is not normal way to react.

"Well," I started confidently, focusing on not slurring too much, "I liked your solo. You're very talented," I added, feeling my stomach give a nervous wobble (this time alcohol-related).

"Oh, yeah. That was nothing." He shrugged, even though I could see he was pleased. "And I have to say, you look very hot tonight. I think it's the first time I've seen you without your huge Pete's t-shirt." His eyes dropped to my breasts. Felt very pleased. Why is it that blatant display of male favoring of appearance over brains, substance, personality, and similar is met with blushing and surge of confidence, as if have won some contest. Women today are too insecure and self-doubting. Am glad that celebrities like Nicole Richie and Kate Bosworth are met with rumors of anorexia, and public is finally realizing that weighing 100 pounds is not natural, and takes starvation, health deterioration and will power to achieve.

"Well, I just threw on some old clothes," I said modestly.

He put his arm around me, and leaned in even closer, so that his lips were on my ear. I fought the impulse to giggle and move away from the tickling sensation. "I like seeing you in old clothes. Maybe we can arrange for me to see more of you. What do you say?"

Was quiet for a long while, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Alcohol had made me extremely stupid, but said "Yes" in time, before Jed could think my hearing or brain capacity sub par, and move on to someone else.

"Yeah?" he said smugly, kissing my ear. "How abou..." he trailed off. I saw his staring at something and looked over to find a very tall Amazon-type girl, with long brown hair and heavy eyeline'd eyes (in that very smoky sexy way, I couldn't help notice, and not in ghastly, zombie-style had hoped). She was smiling at Jed, pointedly not looking at me.

Expected Jed to mutter a hurried hello, and turn attention back to me, but he was getting up, opening his arms in an affectionate way, saying "Veronica!" They went off, presumable to talk or have sex, without a backward glance at me.

Was painfully aware of stares of others at the table, so had to control my face and not droop my mouth in confusion and embarrassment.

"Want to go the bathroom?"

I looked at Lita, gratefully and sheepishly (for had forgotten she was there).


We slipped through the body-maze, sliding against others in ways only appropriate if had had sex with them several times. Bathroom was a clean affair. I checked my face in the mirror, staring in horror at the smudged eyeliner under my eye. Could feel myself blanch in yet another wave of embarrassment.

"What a jerk," Lita muttered, toweling off her hands. Hoped she meant Jed, and not self, even though am clearly a disloyal friend. "And just leaving you because Veronica was there... ugh!" Lurched at mention of Amazon with excellent eyeliner skills.

"Who's Veronica?" I asked finally, hoping the answer was sister, cousin, or very MILF-like motherwho had him when she was twelve.

"She's his ex-girlfriend," Lita explained patiently. "From what I've heard, they've..." She paused as two girls strode in. It was Barbie and her friend.

"As I explained to her: I don't care what she's doing. I think some boundaries are meant to be there, you know? I don't expect to be her friend... oh, hello," she exclaimed, nudging her friend. We stared at each other wearily. "Hi, I'm Mina, and this is Ann." She nodded her head at me and Lita, and proceeded to the sink.

"So what did she say?" Ann questioned, completely ignoring us.

"Well, you know Taylor... she didn't get what I was saying at all. Hold on..." She took out a vial and laid out a line of white powder. Lita and I were trying to continue our conversation, and not let on that we were watching. I stole a peak at Barbie's reflection, rubbing her nose and sniffing calmly.

"When are you going to quit this shit?" Ann asked her exasperatedly.

"Don't you start giving me shit about it, too. I told you, I have it under control. So, anyway, Taylor was saying she didn't understand at..." The door closed behind them.

I caught Lita rolling her eyes and started laughing. Although we both had smoked pot, and had our fair share of bad drug/drunk experiences, snorting cocaine in a public bathroom was not something we had ever went through. I couldn't help but feel a little cool at having been there, though, which, I realize, is a bit petty.

"Come on," Lita said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Let's go home. I've had enough for one night."

We went to Coffee Time, where I drank four cups of coffee and ate four donuts. After the binge, my state of drunkenness seemed to have receded enough to write coherently, even though my stomach hurt all the way home.

AN: This is my second story, this time with a Serena/Darien pairing. This doesn't mean I'm neglecting The Real Hedonist. But updates will be slow, unfortunately. I'm usually a slow writer, but I like to think my product of three months is better in quality than something done in three hours. That way I can look over things and add whatever I see fit.

a. I do live in Toronto, so I will be using the city as a backdrop to the story, even though some of the setting is in Mississauga.

b. Hmmm, I started writing this before I reread Edge of Reason, so I completely forgot that

there's a Jed in the book. slaps head The thing is, Jed is based on Jadeite, and I thought

leaving the name as it is would be too weird, same as having him be Jad (it has a girlish ring to it). It's very ironic that, like in the Edge of Reason, Jed turns out to be an asshole... or does he?

c. The TTC stands for Toronto Transit Commission, which is a metro system, pretty much the cheapest and most efficient (in most parts) way of getting around Toronto.

d. The format the story is written in is sort of modeled after the one used in Bridget Jones' Diary, as anyone who've read the books has probably guessed already, mainly because I thought it would be fun to write it in the form of a diary rather than just first person. And no, Serena was not based on Bridget Jones (she's flaky in her own right ;)). Plus I don't think Serena and Bridget are very similar. For 1, Serena isn't as desperate to get a boyfriend as Bridget is; in fact, she doesn't mind not having one. 2ndly, she hasn't got a career to write of. 3: Bridget Jones is a borderline alcoholic, Serena just enjoys an occasional drink. They are, however, in the same boat with their weakness for junk food.

e. I loooove reviews (what author doesn't?), so drop me a line and tell me what you think.