CHAPTER IV: SCHOOL'S OUT

Maybe 'Christmas' wasn't the best analogy. It was more like my birthday and I was finally getting something I've always wanted. Only, I couldn't touch it until after school, so all I could do was sit there and wait for the final bell to ring; wait until I could run home and rip into all that wrapping paper.

Witchcraft was my first lead. My first real lead. It was the only book I had found that seemed to promise tangible results and it was just sitting in my bag. I could read it if I wanted to. I could just take it out and read it. I had time. Maybe twenty or so minutes? Probably less, actually. It was enough, though. I read a few pages, satiate my curiosity, maybe learn some actual magic, and, well — it'd be paramount to social suicide.

Sunnydale High School wasn't exactly the kindest place to anything potentially abnormal. If you stuck out, had odd interests, acted differently, dressed weird, or even just hung out with the wrong crowd, it was like painting a target on your back. There I'd be, reading my little book, then — well, someone would see. Someone would see and by the day's end, everyone would know.

"Oh, did you hear?" they'd say, not at all trying to keep their whispering quiet. "Kaitlyn Sinclair was reading about witchcraft! How weird? How scandalous!" I'd be shunted off to the same social strata as Michael Czajka — the resident anti-social goth who brooded off in dark corners of the school grounds, blasting Marilyn Manson out of his bestickered diskman. Jokes about my threadbare jackets would go the way of the dinosaurs and suddenly it'd be snippy comments about brooms and cauldrons, dying alone with my army of black cats, or more pointed remarks about how they always knew I was a freak, and now? Now they had proof.

Giles knew about the book. Buffy knew. It was even on school record. Nobody else needed to know, and I certainly didn't want to tempt fate. So, no. No. I wasn't going to read it. Not yet.

That still left what I was going to do for the last half of lunch.

Then my stomach twinged and, suddenly, I remembered—Oh, hey, food!

I stopped short in the hall, surrounded by grey lockers and ambling students, and started back toward the library and, beyond that, the cafeteria. My skirt billowed about my legs and I indulged in the brief fantasy of being some sorceress dressed in a flowing gown, roving the ancient grounds of my tower, air thick with magic.

The second I entered the cafeteria, all that evaporated with the suddenness of a balloon popping in my hands.

There were students everywhere, talking and eating and laughing. From across the room, a pair of jocks argued heatedly about some sports event. To the east-most wall, a table broke out into barking laughter at some crass joke. Near the door, a flock of nerds discussed the Nintendo 64's validity as a piece of hardware.

It was an overwhelming, oppressive sea of voices, utterly suffocating and immensely grating. I could barely hear myself think as every voice bounced off the pale walls, mixing and amplifying into a chittering, clattering cacophony of noise. "Hey, Brett, did you—?" said one, whatever context drowned out as another spoke: "—but what about—?" "Hey, did you hear—?" "Oh, just kill—!" And they just kept speaking and speaking and speaking.

Years ago, I would've ran away—gone somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Now? That instinct to flee was still strong, but I grit my teeth, pushed down that unease snaking around my chest, and ignored how the whole world suddenly felt so distant. I was hungry and, if I didn't get something to eat soon, someone was going to die.

I made my way to the counter and, knowing I didn't have time to indulge, I grabbed a tray and piled on a mild lunch of a chicken burger and a bottle of apple juice. Then I floundered, wondering where I'd sit.

As populated as the cafeteria was, I could still see a few vacant seats here and there. Only, I couldn't be sure they were available.

I lingered for what felt like eternity, eyes trying to pierce through the sea of students, hoping to spot anyone I knew who wouldn't mind sharing a seat with me. I even contemplated asking the nerds for a seat, just to eat. Maybe they'd be benevolent and graciously grant permission. Maybe they'd ignore me, too enthralled by their discussion.

Of course, if they did accept my presence, I might be forced into a conversation I really didn't want to have.

Do you play video games? I could imagine them asking, wearing the imperious expression of someone who couldn't believe a girl would ever be interested in boy things.

Yes, I'd reply, quietly, just wanting to eat my lunch.

Oh, really? They'd be surprised, utterly gobsmacked, and I'd have to bite my tongue and not alienate my hosts. What's your favourite game?

So far, I'd begin, honestly, Crash Bandicoot. I'm still stuck on getting the crystals, though.

The interrogation would continue, and I would be left wishing I had just sat on the floor, instead.

Then, I spotted him: Jonathan Levison. He was a short, mousy kid with deep brown hair that looked almost dirty blond under the sun. He wore simple jeans and a blue-striped polo, and an expression that left me with the distinct impression of someone who always expected the worst. He was alone, sitting at a small circular table near the window, three chairs blissfully empty around it.

Oh, thank God!

I immediately made my way over. When he saw me, his eyes brightened. "Oh, hi, Kaity," he said, quietly. Almost too quietly, considering the din around us.

I nodded — "Hi." — took a seat, and began to free my burger from its aluminum wrapping.

We ate in silence, though to say Jonathan 'ate' was an overstatement as he toyed with his cup of Jell-O, his burrito half-eaten, diced tomato piled neatly in the corner of his tray. He seemed upset. More sullen than usual, at least. I wanted to ask but stopped myself short. It wasn't my business, and I really didn't have anything to offer. Emotional support wasn't in my repertoire. So, I stayed quiet, hoping to polish off my lunch before the bell rang and classes would return.

"You hear about the blackout on Friday?" Jonathan asked suddenly, absently. I almost missed it, if I hadn't caught him moving his mouth out from the corner of my eye.

I nodded again, adding when I felt compelled to give a more concrete answer: "My house was caught in the middle."

He gave a small, rueful smile. "I'm just glad I saved my assignment before the power cut." There was a nervous lilt to his words, and I could imagine what he was thinking — if only because I experienced it every time I talked with strangers. Am I talking too much? Am I being annoying? Did I say something wrong? "I really wouldn't have liked to write that essay up all over again."

"That's the one about the first world war, right?" I asked. We shared a few classes together. History was one, with Mister Baird. I did my essay on women in the war, focusing on the civilian side of things. I was pretty proud of it, even if I had liberal help from Mom and Dad.

"Yeah," he said. "I got an extension, though, so I still got time to edit."

I nodded, and so went on the conversation, slow and stilted. Topic shifted from class to class, from what happened on the weekend — no mention magic, of course — to television and current events. Jonathan was the closest thing I had to a friend, but that didn't mean much. We talked, sure; occasionally hung out between classes, as we were now. There was nothing more than that, though. Jonathan was a good person. He deserved a better friend. Better than I could be, for sure.

The bell rang some fifteen minutes later, and classes returned. I had Spanish followed by Algebra II and study hall, then I'd be free. Just under three hours, thereabouts. Three, long and agonising hours.

Jonathan and I said our see-you-laters — he studied Latin, but we had Algebra together, so we'd meet up there — and we head off our separate ways.

I was actually a bit happy that Spanish was up first. Spanish was good. Spanish was safe. Señorita Hernández was one of the more energetic teachers here at the school, and if anyone could keep my mind off the weight in my bag, it would be her.

The classroom was everything one could expect from a course on Foreign Language, but somehow more. She was passionate and that was reflected in the decoration. A picture of a tanned cartoon man giving the thumbs up hung on the front door, accompanied by the words "Sí means Yes!" scrawled in a text bubble. Posters hung from the wall, verb conjugation and nouns; cute art pieces too — visual and physical representations of Spanish and Latin American culture cluttered about the room.

There was also a television set sitting at the front of the class. Just a black box television atop a black trolley, the VCR sitting beneath it.

Immediately, the atmosphere lightened, excited murmurs filling the air, the same question on everyone's lips: Are we gonna watch a movie?

I hoped we were.

We took our seats, me taking a desk up at the back, near the window but not right beside it. Then, Señorita Hernández arrived in a flowing skirt and a beautiful green blouse that complimented her dark skin. She was a pretty woman, with beautiful and vibrant black hair and lively brown eyes.

"¡Buenos días, estudiantes!" she said, cheerfully. Señorita Hernández took a naturalistic approach to teaching, so half the class was in Spanish. It was good practice, and I always felt more confident by the end of the day than I ever did starting.

"¡Buenos días, Señorita!" we all replied, some more enthusiastic than others.

As it turns out, we would be watching a movie. A short little arthouse piece dubbed in Spanish. Unfortunately, it was also a test. So, once the film came and went, we were to write up — in Spanish, preferably — a synopsis of the film and characters, and a brief analysis, all at least a half-page long.

Strangely enough, the writing wasn't the worst part. It was the short film itself — an impenetrably avant-garde film about some middle-aged man dealing with what I could only assume was his divorce and latent alcoholism as manifested by flesh-burrowing leeches. Honestly, it lost me by the half-way mark and, from the looks on everyone else's faces, I wasn't alone.

I wrote, as best I could, describing what I saw, brief thoughts and a short, scathing three sentence review.

And just like that, Spanish ended not quick enough and still far too soon.

I met Jonathan just outside of class for Algebra II. He smiled again, seeing me, and we entered together. I took my usual spot — up near the back, a seat over from the window — and he took a seat beside me.

The classroom was very spartan when it came to décor. A few posters hung here and there, mostly visual aids for basic mathematical equations — multiplication tables and whatnot. However, a few were of the motivational kind, in the same vein of the "Hang In There!" kitten hanging from a branch. Then there were the newest posters, more of the warning kind: "Say No To Drugs!" and the like.

Miss Jackson arrived some five minutes later; a hunched, stern old woman with sun-kissed skin and wiry white-blonde hair tied up into a bun. A business-like blouse and pants combo finished off the look of a woman who was not to be trifled with, but she was fair and understanding if nobody caused any issues.

Another minute passed as she set up, collecting notes and scrawling onto the blackboard. It was a small grace period so anyone else who might be late wouldn't be considered tardy. Then, she opened her mouth and I immediately zoned out.

I didn't mean to. Like, really. It was just so — so . . . boring. There was nothing to grab my attention, and all I could do was sit there, scribbling in my notebook, little drawings, from eyes to faces, to a little chibi witch with a pointed hat and broom. I tried, at least, to look like I was paying attention, but I'm not sure I was very convincing.

It was about halfway through class when I noticed it. An uncomfortable prickling that crawled across my skin.

I was being watched.

Stilling, I glanced about as subtle as I could. One kid was dozing off, head lulling, desperately trying to pay attention yet drawing ever closer to oblivion. Others practised their thousand-yard stare, glancing off into space, just as out of it as I had been. Jonathan and a few others were of the studious stock, paying close attention to Miss Jackson's every word, answering questions whenever asked, and scrawling notes into their books.

Then, there was Willow Rosenberg.

She was a pretty girl with a round face, long coppery hair, and large green eyes. As usual, she was dressed in a kaleidoscope of colourful clothes — usually some kind of blouse and skirt combo, but today she was wearing pants of all things.

And she was staring at me.

Well, was staring at me, until I caught her eye and she snapped around, ducking her head, looking like — well, like someone who was just caught staring.

The prickling turned hot against my skin, and my chest tightened. I jerked back, staring down at my notebook.

I knew Willow, better than I knew many people in class. We used to go to the same elementary school. Used to be friends, too. Kinda. Sorta. But that was years ago, and this was now. And now? Willow's best friend was Buffy. Buffy Summers. Who knew about my recent excursion to the library.

My chest twisted tighter, stomach dropping. Did Buffy blab? Did Willow know?

I was being paranoid, wasn't I? But why else would she be staring? Willow knew and she obviously thought it weird enough it warranted staring in class.

I grumbled, mutely, leg bouncing furiously, table shaking beneath me.

All the while, class continued uninterrupted, long and painful.

And I still have study hall next. Great . . .

When the final bell rang, heralding the end of study hall, heralding the end of school, I was out of my chair in an instant, all but sprinting out of class.

Mister Burnstein, our study hall teacher, cried out an objection, but whatever he said was drowned out by the avalanche of teens scrambling behind me, all taking my abrupt departure as explicit consent to leave. I didn't care. School was over — finally, blissfully over — and all that exhaustion was crushed beneath a bubbly wave of excitement.

I stormed down the halls, weaving through the sea of people all jabbering around me, stopping briefly by my locker to stow away whatever I didn't need to lug home this evening. Once my burden was lessened, I slammed the locker shut and set off—

"Hiya, Kaity!"

I snapped around, slightly startled.

It was Willow, again, sounding chipper as she giggled, loud and pitchy.

"It — it's been awhile, has — hasn't it?"

I frowned, staring at Willow wearily. If anything, I should've expected this, after her one-sided staring contest back in Algebra II, but still had no idea what to expect. "We have four classes together," I eventually replied, but understood what she meant.

Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time we had shared more than a handful of words. I wanted to. Speak, that is. Speak to her. But it — well. It had been years and I wasn't even sure how to start — what to even say. And, then I remembered Willow staring at me back in Algebra II, and suddenly felt at a loss.

Maybe Buffy hadn't blabbed? Maybe Willow just wanted to catch up after so long.

I adjusted my bag and tried not to show how awkward I felt.

"Yeah, but we haven't talked in ages," she continued, mouth running a mile a minute, fidgeting with her hair. "So, how have you been? Still drawing? I heard you stopped doing drama. I thought you were good at that. How's your folks going? Daphne still doing her little sewing side-job? Gosh, she's always made those beautiful dresses." Another pitchy giggle.

I stared, blinking, not even knowing how to address the babble.

"I've been doing fine," I replied after a moment's pause, hating how monotonous I sounded. "I'm still drawing, yes, and Mom's still doing her sewing. Just last year she was commissioned by the mayor for a snazzy new suit."

Willow's eyes went wide, and she smiled wide. "Oh, really! That's wonderful, Kaity."

"It was weird, really," I couldn't help but admit, "but the Mayor seems like a decent guy. Bit of a germaphobe, though. How have you been?"

"Oh, you know," she replied with a shrug. "Still that little nerd, and — and — and, well. Yeah. Just doing . . . stuff."

That about summed it up.

Stuff.

I wasn't completely ignorant of what Willow had been up to, and not just because her best friend was the topic of no small amount of gossip. Despite that, only one thing came to mind, and I couldn't stop myself from saying it.

"I'm sorry about Jesse, by the way," I replied quietly, and Willow deflated.

Jesse McNally was a student at Sunnydale High and had been good friends with Willow. Then, he went missing back in January. Presumed dead. When the news broke, I considered calling Willow then and there, just to give my condolences. I hadn't.

Better late than never, I guess.

"Thanks," she said with a sigh. "I — I'm good, but thanks."

And, before I knew it, the conversation started hacking up blood, begging us to tell their family that they loved them. A deafening silence had stretched on between us, in spite of the din of the hallway, and I had no idea how to bring it back.

God, I'm an idiot.

But before the conversation could mutter its last words, Willow came and saved it from its inevitable demise. "So," she asked, "up to much recently? Heard you were writing something. Borrowed a weird book for it?"

Oh.

So, I was right.

Buffy had blabbed and that was why Willow wanted to talk to me. She just wanted to know about the weird book. Nothing else.

Okay then.

"Yes?" I answered, trying to keep the bite out of my words.

Willow hesitated. "I — I was just curious because, um. I just wanted to, like, I wanted to ask if maybe I could read some of it when you've finished writing it?"

No you don't.

"I'll see. I'm not even sure what I want to do with it," I replied. "I just kinda wanted to see where it'd go."

"Oh." There was a pause. "Well, maybe if you're comfortable, you could show me, sometime?"

"Sure." Nothing was going to come of it anyway, and I could just file it under another project I got a few pages into then abandoned, but Willow didn't need to know that. "Hey, listen. I gotta get home, so—"

"Yeah, sure," Willow said with a nod, glancing around, looking a little lost.

"See you later, then."

"I—yeah." She made no move to leave. "Um. I'm really glad we could catch up, you know. We — we should do this again, sometime."

"M-hm. Sometime."

"See ya!"

And so Willow left, disappearing into the crowd, and I huffed, adjusted the strap of my bag, and trudged out of school and off to home.

AN: I am so sorry for how late this chapter is. A lot has happened in the four months, from catching the plague to a death in the family, and when I sent this off to get beta'd... well, none of my beta's are exactly reliable. Nevertheless, I haven't forgotten about this story. I'm still working on it, but I'm in the last three months of my Honours thesis and I've also started a different project, too. But I have the entire book planned out for this series so you'll definitely get some updates in the future.