Why Sheila likes long books.

Disclaimer: Buffy, Veronica, the original characters and plot: Joss, Rob Thomas, me.

X X X X X

As Sheila and I walked out of the store, I said, "Just in case you were planning to pick me up telekinetically as your practice -- don't."

Laughing, Sheila said, "Couldn't if I wanted to, Manhunter. 'sides, telekinesis ain't gonna be what I try."

"Need a ride?"

"Yup."

"Where to, Mac?" I said like a New York cab driver, then winced as I thought of the Mac I'd left behind in Neptune.

Don't get me wrong. I liked Sheila. She was a friend. Probably the only unqualified one I had here; my relationships with Buffy and Logan were too complex. And Duncan -- well, maybe someday. But not now.

Depends on how he handles the news that I'm not his sister. So far, when we'd talked, he'd been all business.

Which was fine by me.

"Home," she said.

"Home? You sure?"

"Yeah. Mom's not there now."

"Where is she?"

"I have no idea," she said.

Let's see. So far, what I knew of Sheila's mother was that she drank and that she thought her daughter's experiences in the school during School Hard were a neat way to make money.

Another typical Sunnydale family. Joyce Summers. Dad. And the list of nominees for the Good Parenting award in Sunnydale pretty much stops there.

Hell, even Neptune's record wasn't that bad. How bad does it have to be when Jake and Celeste Kane are better parents than pretty much anyone else you can think of?

Sheila lived in an apartment in a pretty bad section of town (and despite Cordelia's sentiment that "there's not a whole lot of town," Sunnydale was bigger than you think). My apartment building might be kind of run down, but it was the Ritz compared to this place.

There were no exposed pipes, no rats, and no broken windows; it didn't look like something you'd see doubling for a crack house on an episode of Law & Order. It was just decrepit, that's all. I could have kicked the doors down.

And remember, I'm not the short blonde with superhuman strength.

The building looked familiar for some reason. I couldn't place why.

We walked up a flight of stairs that didn't look like it had been cleaned since Nixon resigned and went into the apartment, and then into the only bedroom. "Your Mom let you have it?"

"It's easier," Sheila said. She didn't explain how, and I didn't ask. The room was furnished simply: bed, desk, dresser, bookshelf. There was also a crate with some food and bottles of spring water in it.

The bookcase had some long books. Sheila hadn't been kidding. Battlefield Earth; Atlas Shrugged; The Fountainhead; the Complete Shakespeare; Complete histories of the Revolutionary, Civil, and both World Wars; The Encyclopedia of American Crime; The Essential Ellison; The Jerusalem Bible; my Sherlock Holmes books; and a number of 3- or 4-in-1 compilations of mysteries and science fiction. Probably the shortest thing there, not counting her schoolbooks and a spellbook, was one of Cecil Adams' Straight Dope compilations.

"Long books?" I asked.

"Long books. Like I said, please don't ask."

'I won't."

The evil grin returned. "Now. Time to learn a spell." She reached under her bed and took out a knife. "'kay, manhunter. Take one of my shirts and put it over my head so I can't see anything."

I did so, still confused about what kind of spell she was going to try. "Now," she said, her voice muffled by the shirt, "Take a lipstick and mark a spot on the wall. Anywhere. Don't tell me where."

Walking around the room for about thirty seconds, I marked a spot at about shoulder level above Sheila's bed. A few seconds later, I said, "Okay. Done."

She didn't say anything. From beneath the shirt, I could hear some indistinct muttering. The only words I could hear clearly were "find the target."

Without warning she took the knife and threw it as hard as she could.

No points if you figure out where it ended up.

Three more times I picked spots. The final time she stopped me and said, "Nice try, manhunter. I'm not cutting up my dresser. Pick somewhere else."

After I erased and replaced the mark, once again I heard, "Find the target," and the knife ended up in the wall.

She took the short off her head. "How'd I do?"

"Four for four," I said. "Let me see that shirt." I tied it around my own head.

I couldn't see anything. Not even light and dark. When I removed it, Sheila was staring at me with a vaguely aggrieved look on her face. "'dya think I was fooling you, manhunter?"

"You know me," I said. "I'm always suspicious." I smiled. "Pure magic, huh?"

"Pure magic."

"How did you know how to do the spell?"

Shrugging, Sheila said, "Just because I haven't done any spells doesn't mean I haven't been reading up on them. This was in that book of basic magic. Yeah, so was that telekinesis, and a cool light spell, and that dust devil Rae mentioned. This is the one that called me. So this is the one I did."

"On your first try, though? Impressive."

"Thanks," she said. "'sgood I've been doing all that meditating. Paid off. I've been practicing this in my head for about a week now. Wasn't going to try it in person until Rae said she thought I was ready."

"Why'd you pick this one?"

She shrugged again. "Dunno. I've always been a physical person, though. Messing with people's minds or using my own to move stuff doesn't really interest me."

"How were you planning to use this?" I asked.

And her evil grin grew wider. "To break things, manhunter. Maybe put 'em back together." After a second, "Maybe not."

"Just -- don't let it run away with you." I was never one of those people who saw Willow's problems with magic in season six as an addiction. I saw that as the way the characters saw it.

And clearly, they were wrong. It wasn't about addiction; it was about the person using the magic. Catherine Madison had no morals. Whatever morals Amy had were wiped away by her mother and her association with Rack.

Willow had morals. What she didn't have was a self-image that let her value herself through who she was, rather than what she could do or who she was in a relationship with.

Doubt me? Think about it. First, hacking. Then Oz. Then magic. Then Tara. She never defined herself.

But magic qua magic in the Buffyverse was clearly not the issue. Tara, who certainly had a fair amount of power, never came remotely close to abusing her abilities.

Because her mother taught her not to.

That's what I was hoping would happen here. Only it wouldn't involve Sheila's mother, obviously.

"Not a chance," Sheila said. "I know what's right and what's wrong. Rae made damn sure I heard about witches who went crazy and bad. 'm not going to be like that. Not going to mess with people's heads. Buildings, chairs, etc: They ain't got minds to mess with or lives to screw up."

"As long as there's no one in the buildings when you burn them down," I said.

Sheila could tell from my tone I was kidding and said, "Naah. Arson's Buffy's gig."

I laughed and said, "Your first spell."

"Yeah. Didn't do too damn bad, did I?"

The front door opened. "Sheila? Sweetie?"

"In here," Sheila said.

"Mommy's got some work to do. So stay in your room, okay?"

"Mom --"

"You know the rules. I don't work, we don't eat."

"You don't work, you don't drink," Sheila muttered.

Without a word, Sheila got up and closed the door. "You might want to call your father," she said. "We're going to be here a while." She cussed to herself. And she's an impressive cusser, no question. Not exactly imaginative, but what she lacks in cleverness she more than makes up for in quantity and sheer vitriol.

"What's going on?" I said.

"You're not deaf, manhunter," she said. "Listen. And I'm sorry about this. I thought she was going to be gone for a couple of days. In the meantime, grab a book. And shush. Mom doesn't like it when I talk too loud when she's working." She went over, grabbed the Sherlock Holmes volume, and began reading her way through "Silver Blaze."

I didn't follow her advice. I didn't go charging out into the main room, either.

I did listen,

I didn't have a choice, not unless I wanted to drive a nail through my eardrums.

After about five minutes, that's exactly what I wanted to do.

Would you like to know what Sheila's mother did for a living?

Allow me to get out the thesaurus for some fun 'n' games.

Party girl.

Camp follower.

"Escort."

Lady of the evening.

Courtesan.

Call girl.

Prostitute.

My first wild thought was that she couldn't be very good at it, if this was where she lived.

My second thought was well, she has to get the booze money somewhere. And, looking around the apartment, it was obvious she wasn't blowing it on interior decorating.

I wondered why Sheila wasn't sticking her fingers in her ears and going "La la la la la" as loud as she could. After I looked at her concentrating on "Silver Blaze" as though it were her last hope of salvation, I realized that, in her own way, she was.

After fifteen minutes -- when it became obvious that Mommy Kelly's client wasn't going away anytime soon -- I went to the far corner of the room and called Dad.

"I'm going to be a little late getting home," I said.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just stuck at Sheila's for the moment. We're going over some readings. I'll be home as soon as I can."

"And I was going to make my famous tuna salad," he said.

"Save some," I said.

"Sweetie?" Dad said. "Is everything okay? Usually you wouldn't pass up a line like that."

"Just distracted, that's all," I said. "You know I'd tell you."

"I do," he said. "See you when you get home."

Without lifting her head from the book, Sheila said, "Thank you."

"Next time, I tell him," I said. "I'm not staying here all night. And I'm not jumping out a third-story window, either."

"You shouldn't have to," Sheila said. "People don't usually stay for more than an hour. There's always space in between."

"Are you okay?"

"Of course not," she said, still never lifting her eyes. "And don't ask me if I want to talk about it, now, later, or ever. I've had sixteen years to get used to this."

"You sure?"

"Never surer of anything, Veronica," she said. "Now. Grab a book. Please."

With that, I knew how serious she was. Taking out the book we were reading in English, I started to read.

Twenty minutes later, Mommy Kelly's voice came through the door. "Okay, sweetie!" she yelled. "You can come out. Mommy's done."

Sheila put the book down. "Okay, manhunter. Time to get you out of here."

As she stood up, I grabbed her arm. "Are you going to get in trouble?"

Shaking her head, she said, "No. Mom doesn't have a temper." There was a lot packed into that sentence.

"Want to come with?" I asked.

And once again, "No. This is one of the reasons I stayed out so late. I've learned from you what a bad idea that is."

"Sweetie?" Mommy Kelly yelled.

"One more thing," I said. "How have you managed to survive this long?"

She got it within seconds. "Mom never invites anyone in. Something to do with entrapment."

That didn't make a whole lot of sense. I said as much

"Never said it made sense, manhunter. Right now, I'm just glad she thinks that way."

She opened the door and we walked out.

Sheila bore very little resemblance to her mother. The woman was five foot ten, dirty blonde, and damn near skeletal. She didn't seem to be high on anything except alcohol, though. "Sheila!" her mother said. "Why didn't you tell me you had someone over?"

"I didn't have the chance," Sheila muttered. Either Mommy Kelly didn't hear, or she'd heard it so often it didn't register.

Or she simply didn't care. I wasn't placing bets either way.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Grace."

"Veronica," I said.

"Nice to meet you," she said. "Sweetie, if she's going to stay --"

"No, I really had to get going anyway," I said. "See you at school tomorrow, Sheila. Enjoy the Sherlock Holmes." Then, "Nice to meet you, Ms. Kelly. Have a good evening."

"Always do!" Grace said cheerfully.

The door slammed shut behind me.

Aaron Echolls may still be the worst parent in Sunnydale, with Xander's parents fighting him for the top spot.

Grace Kelly may very well be third.

Does it need to be said that sometimes, life sucks?

Well, whether it does or not, I'm saying it anyway.

Sometimes, life sucks.

As I hit the landing I nearly collided with someone coming from the basement.

"Excuse me," I said, then saw who it was.

"Angel?" Well, that explained why the building looked vaguely familiar.

He looked at me. "Veronica. What are you doing here?"

"Working on a case," I lied. "You live here?"

"It's not much, but I like to call it hell," he said. I think he stole that line from MASH. Since I've done the same thing, I was hardly going to call him on it. "It's starting to get dark and this is far from being the safest section of town," he said. "Walk you to your car?"

"Sure. Thanks." As we headed outside, I said, "How are your hands?"

"Healing," he said. "You didn't really do a lot of damage. If I'd meant to hurt you --"

"The next shot would have hit your face," I said. "I have enough to do serious damage."

"Good," he said. "And this would be your car."

"Need a ride anywhere?" I asked out of politeness.

He shook his head. "I'd rather walk."

I was glad to hear it.

Because, right now, I preferred to be alone.

I got in my car and drove home.

Did I mention life sucks?