Chapter Text
The December chill in Springfield, Oregon, is a biting, damp thing that clings to the yellow paint of the school bus like a frost-bitten shroud. Inside, the heater groans—a rhythmic, mechanical death rattle that does little to combat the draft snaking through the cracked rubber seals of the emergency exit. At the wheel, Otto Mann is a blur of denim and frayed headphones. His permed hair, slightly thinner than it was in the nineties but no less chaotic, bounces to the heavy sludge of a stoner-rock riff only he can hear. Behind him, the bus is a microcosm of adolescent angst.
Bart Simpson, fifteen and tall for his age, sits near the back. He is a study in shadows, dressed in a charcoal-grey hoodie with the sleeves pulled over his knuckles. A Guy Fawkes mask dangles from his backpack strap, the grinning plastic face catching the grey afternoon light. Next to him, Jeremy Turley—Snake’s kid, sixteen and already possessing that same lean, predatory stillness—fiddles with a Zippo lighter, the clink-sip of the flame a constant underscore to their hushed conversation. Bart’s mind isn't on the road; it’s on the sleek, black Sony video camera nestled in his bag, a tool gifted by Principal Skinner’s desperate bid for "artistic engagement." Bart doesn't want to make a movie; he wants to capture a spectacle.
A few seats up, Lisa, thirteen and miserable, tries to flatten a stubborn, frizzy section of her star-shaped hair that seems determined to defy the laws of physics. Her braces, a shimmering silver lattice across her teeth, ache with the cold, and a fresh patch of acne along her jawline makes her feel like a walking disaster. She keeps her head down, focused on a Sailor Moon manga, finding solace in Usagi’s clumsy grace. Across the aisle, seven-year-old Maggie is the only one who looks truly content, her cheeks flushed pink as she works on a cherry-red sucker, a small plastic turtle clutched in her free hand.
"Hold onto your hats, little dudes and dudettes!" Otto shouts, his voice cracking with a manic sort of glee. "We're taking a detour to the Land of Flavor!"
The bus doesn't turn toward the residential districts. Instead, it swerves into the greasy, salt-stained lot of a local fast-food joint. The tires screech against the asphalt as Otto pulls the massive yellow vehicle into the narrow drive-thru lane, the side mirrors missing the brick wall by mere fractions of an inch. He leans out the window, ignoring the static-heavy speaker box, and shouts toward the service window. A young woman with bleached-blonde hair tucked under a paper cap leans out. This is Becky. She smells of fry oil and cheap vanilla perfume, her smile wide and genuine.
"Becky, babe!" Otto bellows, his eyes shining. "Just checking in! The big day! It’s still a go, right? No cold feet in the deep fryer?"
Becky laughs, a bright, melodic sound that cuts through the bus's internal gloom. She reaches out, her hand stained with mustard yellow, and cups Otto’s stubbled cheek. "Are you kidding, Otto? I’ve got the dress in my locker and the rings in my pocket. The wedding is on."
She leans further, planting a firm, lingering kiss on his cheek. Otto lets out a triumphant "Woo-hoo!" that would make Homer proud, and the bus erupts into a mix of disgusted groans from the sophomores and confused cheers from the primary schoolers.
Ten minutes later, the bus lurches to a halt in front of the house where Marge now lives with Ruth Powers. The yard is neatly kept, a stark contrast to the bus's chaotic energy. As the Simpson children descend the steps, Bart lingers by the driver’s seat. He adjusts his hood, his expression unreadable behind his fringe.
"Hey, Otto," he says, his voice deeper now, carrying the scratchy weight of puberty. "I overheard. About the wedding."
Otto looks up, surprised. "Yeah, little man?"
"You can hold it in the backyard," Bart says, gesturing toward the Powers' property. "Mom and Ruth won't care. They did it for Apu back in August of last year, remember? It was a whole thing. Exotic, or whatever. We can set it up. I’ve got the camera now—I can film the whole production. It'll be... cinematic."
Otto’s face breaks into a look of pure, unadulterated gratitude. "Whoa, Bart. That’s heavy. That’s like... archival-quality kindness, man. You’re a real one."
One week before the ceremony, the Powers-Simpson living room is a battlefield of lace samples and setlists. Marge sits on the sofa, her blue hair piled high, looking every bit the concerned matriarch. Becky is pacing the rug, her energy frantic and vibrating.
"I just thought," Marge says gently, holding up a sheet of sheet music, "what’s wrong with the traditional wedding march? It’s classic. It’s elegant. It doesn't involve... whatever it is you and Otto listen to."
Becky stops, her eyes wide. "Marge, honey, look at me. Look at Otto. We aren't 'traditional' people. Otto specifically asked for some crunch! He wants fire, he wants soul! I’ve been talking to this Poison tribute band, Cyanide? They’re incredible. Otto loves their version of 'Talk Dirty to Me.' He said it sounds like a velvet sledgehammer. Imagine us walking down the aisle to that!"
Marge’s mouth thins into a hard line. She glances at Ruth, who leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene with amused, detached cool.
"Heavy metal at a backyard wedding?" Marge asks, her voice rising an octave. "Becky, the neighbors... the turtles in Maggie’s habitat... It’s too much. Just because Otto likes it doesn't mean it's right for a wedding ceremony."
"I'll go check on the catering!" Becky chirps, seemingly oblivious to Marge's mounting horror, and darts out toward the kitchen.
As soon as the door swings shut, Marge turns to Ruth. "I can't let her do it, Ruth. I can't. Cyanide? It’s garish. And honestly... is she really right for him? I mean, we've known Otto for years, and he's... well, he's Otto. He needs someone to ground him, not someone encouraging his worst musical impulses. I don't think she knows what she's getting into."
Ruth shrugs, her leather vest creaking. "Marge, you only see the guy when he’s dropping off the kids. You don't know their vibe."
Marge turns her head toward the stairs, where the three children are loitering, eavesdropping with practiced skill. "Kids! Down here. Now."
They shuffle in. Lisa looks like she’d rather be anywhere else; Bart looks bored, though his eyes are sharp; Maggie is aggressively sucking on her red lollipop.
"What do you kids think of her?" Marge asks, her tone urgent. "I know she's only been hanging around the backyard for a few days after school, but is Becky really the right person for Otto? You've known him since you were in diapers. Does this... does this feel right to you?"
Bart scoffs, leaning against the banister and tugging at his hoodie strings. "Who cares, Mom? We barely know her, but she seems cool. She let Jeremy and me 'smoke-test' the grill when she was back there yesterday. She’s chill. Otto’s a burnout; she’s a firecracker. It works. Plus, the wedding is gonna be great for my movie. Total 'found footage' vibes."
Lisa sighs, tucking a stray, frizzy lock of hair behind her ear, her braces glinting. "I think she’s nice, Mom. Even if she's a stranger, she actually listened when I explained the plot of Sailor Moon Crystal while they were waiting for the bus to clear out. Most adults just glaze over. If Otto wants his loud music, why does it matter? He's been the same guy forever; maybe he needs someone who actually shares his taste."
Maggie just pulls the red sucker out of her mouth with a loud pop. "She likes turtles," she says decisively, as if that were the only metric that mattered. "She said they're 'little armored dudes' when she saw my pond on Tuesday."
Marge frowns, her concerns clearly not shared by her offspring, who seem perfectly willing to accept a newcomer into Otto's orbit based on a few afternoons of "chill" behavior.
Five days before the wedding, the doorbell rings at 8:00 AM.
Marge opens it to find Becky standing there with three oversized suitcases and a guitar case. Her mascara is slightly smudged, and she looks uncharacteristically frayed.
"Marge, please," Becky says, her voice trembling. "The band got canceled. Some 'anonymous' caller told the lead singer the venue was a police convention. And my landlord just started fumigating for roaches. Can I stay here? Just until the wedding? I need to be close to the site. There's so much to do."
Marge feels a sharp, icy needle of guilt poke at her chest. She knows exactly who made that "anonymous" call to "save" her backyard from the heavy metal. She looks back at Ruth, who gives a slow, supportive nod.
"Of course, Becky," Marge says, forcing a smile. "Bring your things in."
The shift in the house is instantaneous. Within forty-eight hours, Becky has integrated herself into the family's routine with terrifying efficiency. She spends hours helping Lisa with her Sailor Moon cosplay, showing her how to use a curling iron to get the "meatball" hair buns just right without the frizz. She sits on the floor with Maggie, discussing the dietary habits of snapping turtles with genuine fascination. Even Bart seems less prickly around her; she knows exactly how to talk to him about his camera angles "without sounding like a narc."
But as Marge watches Becky laugh with Ruth over a bottle of beer in the kitchen, or sees her kids gravitating toward the guest room to hear Becky’s stories about the road, a green-eyed monster begins to stir. Marge finds herself hovering in doorways, watching Becky’s every move. Why is she being so nice? What is she looking for in their cabinets? And more importantly, why does it feel like Becky is better at being "Marge" than Marge is?