'The Freshman Fifteen' is an alternate fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A fanfic writer is not constrained by TV budgets or schedules, so more options are available. 'The Freshman Fifteen' finds the Scoobies scattered far and wide: Buffy in Sunnydale, Cordelia in LA, Willow in Boston/Cambridge, Oz and Xander on the road, and Faith on another road. The series title is not a promise that there will be exactly fifteen stories; it's simply a popular idiom. Each story will deal with one character (two in the case of Oz and Xander) and will run concurrently. I hope you enjoy this series and, if you do, that you will leave feedback. Thanks.
Suggested Listening:
"Changes" David Bowie
"Harlem River Blues" Justin Townes Earle
"Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out With Me" Cracker
"Dead Girl Walking" Jensen McRae
AUTHOR'S WARNING:
Readers should be aware that this story contains descriptions and depictions of self-harm and possible suicidal ideation.
Welcome to the Monkey House
by
Michael Walker
Smoke drifted through a reddened sky. Flames danced behind the shattered windows of what had once been homes and stores, but were now just husks. The setting sun and the guttering flames backlit the tall figure in the flowing… coat? Cape?
She tasted blood and ashes in her mouth. She spat and wiped her mouth with her forearm; the skin was gritty and hot. Her right hand ached from gripping her improvised weapon, and her clothing was filthy and torn. When she tried to swallow, her dry throat spasmed and she coughed. The threatening silhouette glided closed, extending one long spectral arm…
She tumbled out of bed onto the floor, tangled in her blankets. She pushed her head up and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Thirty minutes until the alarm went off; no way was she wasting that much sleepytime. She crawled back into bed, trailing the covers behind her, and fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep. A half-hour later, the alarm sounded: the only reaction from the figure on the bed was to roll over and pull the blankets tighter.
The purple Rav4 wheeled into parking lot A-7. The late summer California sun glinted off its windshield as it pulled into a spot. The door opened and disgorged the driver: a small girl with tousled blond hair. She checked the time on her phone, then stuffed it into her pocket and began to quick-walk toward the four-story building bordering the lot. It was the first day of classes for the Fall '99 semester at the University of California-Sunnydale, and Buffy Summers was already about to be late.
The back door to Allen 154 was just to the right of the main entrance. Buffy arrived simultaneously with three other students. She reached the door handle first and pulled it open. The classroom was canted like a stadium; long, curved tables marched down to the front. Chairs were bolted to the tables, and the back rows of the banked seats were already filled. Buffy scanned the room; there, four rows down, at the far end, but the lanky guy just behind her had spotted it as well. She took off, cutting ahead of him to counteract his greater stride length. She was able to keep inside position and a tighter turning radius, allowing her to slip into the seat a half-step ahead of him. He directed a grumpy look down at her; Buffy looked up at him, the very soul of innocence. He shook his head in disgust and began to pick his way through the narrow gap between the seat and the higher tier behind it to an open chair near the middle of the row. Buffy slouched low. She'd get her earlier next class period and get one of the seats in the back row; why move toward the front without Willow? A man with a haircut he hadn't changed since he graduated from college in approximately 1976 and an honest-to-god sweater vest placed his hand on the podium next to a laptop. Buffy sighed; she hadn't seen a sweater vest since…
She shook her head before she could complete the thought. Millions of men around the world wore sweater vests every day. It was simply not a unique item of clothing. The man at the lectern cleared his throat and tapped the computer. Black text appeared on the pull-down screen high on the wall behind him.
"Welcome to History 1103-" he covered a small yawn. Great, Buffy thought, he's already boring himself. "World History. I'm your instructor, Paul Bottoms." Buffy couldn't decide whether to snort or roll her eyes; a sizable portion of her classmates opted for muffled snorting. "This course will deal with the rise of civilizations in Africa, Asia, Europe, the Americas, and Oceania from prehistory to 1000 CE. There are copies of the syllabus down here-" he pointed at the corners of the front row "-and on the table by the back door. Okay, we have a lot of ground to cover, so let's get to it–"
Buffy spent the rest of the hour in a state of stasis. Time neither dragged nor flew; it simply was. She propped her head on her hand and just hoped that her elbow wouldn't slide out from under her head. The result would be an embarrassing face-plant, although that might be an apt metaphor. Her only defense was that everyone in class seemed to be in a similar torpor, except for two girls who sat in the second row. They might as well have had signs reading 'Grade Grub' taped to their backs.
The class ended ten minutes early, when Mr. Bottoms (still funny, Buffy thought) announced they were finished. Buffy blinked and shook her head. No bells in a college classroom, a true double-edged sword. No shrill claxon to wake her up, but, also, no shrill claxon to wake her up. She exited Allen and stopped on the sidewalk to orient herself. She knew where Emery Hall was, she just felt a little foggy. She turned right and drifted along in the current of students, surrounded by chatter but hearing nothing. She peeled off to the left and entered Emery through one of the side doors. She was headed for room 110B; the B meant Basement, which seemed appropriate. The room was much smaller than the stadium arrangement in Allen 154. This was more like a normal classroom. The desk in the far back corner was already occupied, but the other freshmen had made the rookie mistake of heading for the far wall; Buffy took a hard left and ended up in the near corner back seat. Somehow she knew that Intro to College Mathematics was not a primo course: aside from being in the basement (symbolic, much), there was the clear implication that being introduced to math at this late date meant one was a dunce.
Still, she didn't feel absolutely lost; maybe all that time spent staring death in the face together had caused a sort of osmosis whereby Buffy had absorbed some of Willow's knowledge, or maybe aptitude was a better choice of words… word? Anyway, the class felt less like an introduction and more like that feeling you had when, after a long time, you ran into someone you didn't like and hadn't seen in quite a while and you weren't exactly happy to see them, but at least they were familiar.
She opted for lunch on the patio outside the student union; the thought of being trapped inside with all that boisterous noise caused her to go clammy in the pits. She took a salad and an iced tea out to one of the wrought-iron tables. The sun was warm and welcoming, the sky was the clear, cloudless blue that screamed California, the umbrella stuck in the center of the table provided a pleasant shade, the courtyard was filled with the bright, convivial chatter of happy, optimistic young people, and Buffy felt utterly disconnected from all of it. Chewing and swallowing was practically an out-of-body experience. When she had ingested all of her purchased food, she threw the utensils in the trash and walked away, disconnected and floating, her feet functioning perfectly, which was fortunate, because her mind was completely disengaged from the process. She had one more class for the day: Anthropology 1102, Introduction to Anthropology. She aimed her body in the direction of Zarins Hall.
The echo of a bouncing basketball caused Matti Hollis to raise her head. It was a familiar sound, but also out of place, since no one was supposed to be in the gym. The sound shifted from random bouncing to the controlled rat-a-tat of someone clearly handling the ball. Matti pushed back her chair and headed for the gym. The sound grew louder and clearer as she went down the tunnel until, by the time she reached the entrance to the floor, she could almost envision the drills performed by the phantom ball handler.
A girl a little less than average height and solidly built stood in the middle of the Sunnydale High logo at midcourt. She dribbled the ball between her legs, then alternated hands rapidly, moving her arms in front of and behind her legs, but keeping the ball bouncing in the same spot between her feet. She was so focused that she didn't see Matti step onto the court.
"Can I help you?" the coach said, her voice echoing in the empty gym. The girl twitched and lost her rhythm, then scooped up the rolling ball and cradled it on her hip, flashing an irritated look in Matti's direction.
"Nah, Old School, I just loosening up."
Matti nodded, tongue in cheek. "What's your name?"
The girl pulled up the neck of her t-shirt to wipe her forehead. "Lauren Kennedy."
"Well, Lauren Kennedy, you're not supposed to be in here. School hasn't started yet." Matti crossed her arms and smiled.
"Now, why you gotta be like that, Old School?" Lauren dribbled the ball between her legs, left hand to right hand and back again.
"Go on." Matti cocked a thumb over her shoulder.
Lauren cradled the ball on her hip and looked the Knight up and down. "You pretty tall, you got some serious kicks, how about this? One-on-one, first one to twenty, if I win, I get to hang in here and work on my game."
Matti crossed her arms. "And if I win?"
The girl smiled. "Not gonna happen."
"Humor me. If I do?"
Lauren shrugged. "I ask before I come out here."
Matti nodded. "Gimme a minute." She sat down on the first row of the bleachers and peeled off her warm up pants, tossed them behind her, then stood up and stomped her feet twice. "Let me loosen up."
"Go 'head, Old School, don't want you to pull nothin'."
Matti looked daggers at the girl. The Knight bent and touched her hands to the floor, then did a couple of groin stretches. "Okay," she said, walking onto the court, "you can take it out first."
"You sure? I don't want you complaining later." Lauren tossed the ball to Matti. The Knight flipped it back with a little extra zip.
"Ready when you are."
Lauren took two hard dribbles down the right side of the lane, then pulled the ball back and spun on her left foot when Matti moved over to stop the drive. The girl completed the move with a delicately feathered left-hand layup; the net barely rustled as the ball passed through. Lauren grabbed it on the bounce and passed it to Matti. "Didn't break your ankle, did I?"
Matti rolled her eyes and walked out to the top of the key. "Check me." She bounced the ball to Lauren, then took the return pass and rose up, ball in her right hand, elbow tucked underneath, to release the shot at the top of her jump. The ball snapped cleanly through the rim as the net wrapped around the hoop. Lauren turned, wide-eyed. "What?" Matti said. "That'd be three in a real game. Your ball."
Lauren played a good game, fast and quick. She kept the ball on a string and varied her speed, getting to the basket and using the rim to shield her shot from the taller opponent. She had a pretty good pull-up jumper and a decent step-back move to create space.
Defense was another story, though. Lauren managed to dart around Matti and steal the ball once, but after that Matti simply used her size advantage to back the smaller girl into the lane, where she was able to convert short jumpers. Lauren tried to plant her feet and push back, but Matti was no beanpole; the girl might as well have been pushing on one of the statues in Owen Park. The Knight led 19-15 when Lauren drove the lane, pulled back with a between-the-legs dribble, hunched her shoulders as if she was pulling up for a jump shot, then exploded to her left, bringing the ball up from low down to try and kiss it off the glass. She had used that move before, and Matti had noted and cataloged it. She was waiting for the girl to try it again. The Knight took one step toward the basket and leaped, seeing the ball float up from Lauren's hand, timing it all the way, reaching up with her right hand, tapping the ball off the glass and controlling the carom. Matti took three dribbles out past the three-point line, whirled, and fired. She touched down with her right arm stretched up over her head, her hand 'making the swan' as her uncle had taught her. The ball hit the front of the hoop, bounced up and kissed the backboard, then rattled around the rim before dropping through.
"That's game," the Knight said, wiping sweat from her eyes.
"Yeah, you got lucky, Old School."
"Whatever lets you sleep at night." Matti grinned. "What grade are you?"
"Me? I'm a sophomore."
Matti pursed her lips. "You didn't play last year? I don't remember you being on the team."
"Oh, I was on the team, just not here." Lauren picked up the ball and spun it on her middle finger. "We moved here from Cleveland. My dad got transferred."
Matti nodded. "Well, since you lost, I guess you have to ask before you come out here." She pointed toward the mouth of the tunnel. "My office is that way, so come see me if you want to shoot around, although volleyball starts practice next week when school opens, so court time might be hard to come by." She turned and walked off the court.
"Hey, Old School, who exactly are you?" Lauren called after her.
Matti turned when she reached the tunnel. "I'm the girls basketball coach… and I expect to see you when practice starts."
"Everything all right?" Joyce asked.
Buffy looked up from the wicker loveseat on the Summers' porch. "Sure, just watching it get dark."
Joyce slipped out and leaned back against the door. "You know, it's not too late for you to move into the dorm."
Buffy sighed, more in irritation than resignation. "Mom, I'm not living in the dorm, not when casa Summers is right here."
Joyce looked pained. "Honey, I'm worried that you're missing part of the college experience."
"What part would that be?" Buffy said, looking out toward the street. "Listening to clueless airheads obsess over absolutely meaningless crap? Trying to act interested in whatever stupid drama they're into today?" Her face screwed up like she was either angry or about to cry. "I don't think so. Besides, the money you saved paid for my car."
Joyce closed her eyes for a moment. "Okay. I'm going up to read for a little while. Will you be okay?"
"Sure." The girl's voice was harsh. "There are no more monsters in Sunnydale." She heard her mother's step and the door closing, then Buffy sat on the porch, surrounded by the singing of tree frogs, the chirping of crickets, and the racing thunder of her pulse.
Casey Porter jogged into the school parking lot for cross-country practice. Coach Hyde loved training early in the morning, especially before school got started; her theory was that most of her runners had very little happening at that hour, therefore they could focus more clearly on technique and goals. Since Casey had no car and her mother was not awake yet, she ran to practice. She always arrived first; no one asked questions if she was already there. The squad had already been practicing for two weeks, but when school started next week the routine would change. Casey would pack her clothes in her backpack, train, then shower and dress before first hour.
She did ankle raises with her hands on her hips, then transitioned to high-steps. She always did fifty on each leg, pulling the knee to her chest at the top of the motion, but she was at forty-two when a car pulled into the far end of the parking lot. Casey didn't know much about cars, but this one was obviously expensive… and black, black and expensive, with the kind of tinted windows that had come from the factory, not the film sold at the discount auto-parts store. It rolled almost silently toward her; the loudest sound was the purr of the tires over asphalt. It stopped, the back door opened, a girl got out, and Casey's mouth went dry.
The girl was beautiful, no, not just beautiful, she was radiant, as though she carried her own light source. Thick, silky dark hair fell past her shoulders, every feature on her heart-shaped face was in perfect proportion, she wore a multicolored singlet and blue nylon shorts with yellow piping. A yellow scrunchie circled her wrist and on her feet were blue-and-yellow Mizuno Wave Riders. Casey recognized them immediately; she would have killed to have a pair, but she lacked the $100 to buy them.
"Is this where cross country is supposed to meet?" the girl asked.
Casey realized that she looked like someone miming a flamingo, standing there on one leg with her arms wrapped around the other shin. She hastily returned to two feet and said, "Uh, yeah, here, we practice here, uh, Coach'll be here in a minute."
The girl nodded and leaned back into the car, then slammed the door. The car turned left and pulled out onto the street. The girl walked over and stuck out her hand. "Hi," she said, "I'm Ophelia Rivera. I'm new in town."
"Uh, I'm Casey, Casey Porter." She wiped her hand on her t-shirt and they shook. Casey was a little surprised to realize that she was taller than Ophelia; the new girl had the kind of presence that made her seem bigger than life. Up close, she came off as both exotic and super-cute. Casey stood there, feeling gawky and sweaty. "Um, uh, we've been practicing for two weeks, I haven't seen you before."
"Yeah." Ophelia pulled her hair back and deftly secured it with the scrunchie. "I meant it when I said I'm new in town, like, literally, seventy-two hours new."
Casey blinked. "Really?"
Ophelia nodded. "Yes, really. I registered for school the day before yesterday, spent yesterday getting my paperwork in order, and…" she lifted her hands and dropped them "...here I am today." She leaned back slightly to look Casey up and down, then smiled. "Nice tights."
"Did you run cross country at your old school?" Casey felt like an idiot the minute she said it. Nobody came to cross country practice dressed like that who didn't already run.
"Yes," Ophelia said as she began stretching.
"Where did you move from, Los Angeles?"
Ophelia put her hands on her hips and did a backbend. "No. I've never been in California before. We lived in Durham, North Carolina. My dad was at Duke Medical Center."
"Oh, okay, yeah, that's cool." Casey died a little inside; it was literally impossible to sound any stupider than she did at that moment. She was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Coach Hyde's white SUV. Coach was a short, solidly built woman with a deep tan; she coached cross country and golf, so she spent a fair amount of time outside. "Casey," she said. "Who's your friend?"
"Uh," Casey pointed, "this is Ophelia-"
"Oh, you're Ophelia Rivera." Coach Hyde grabbed the girl's hand. "Glad to have you on the team. I see you've already met our number one."
Ophelia turned, her face opening up in a beaming smile. "You're the number one?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess, kinda." Casey felt her face flush hot, and not from exercise.
Buffy sucked on her front teeth and frowned. Her mouth felt gummy, even though she had brushed her teeth. Oh, well, one sure way to cut through that. She took a long slug of the trenta cup of coffee she had purchased at the Union. She didn't know what trenta meant; she had just asked the girl behind the counter for the biggest cup they had. Her nose crinkled. Were they baristas at the Union? She shook her head and took another drink, then tried to fend off the resulting coffee breath with three Tic Tacs. She looked around the room as the mints dissolved. The stadium seating was full to bursting; apparently a lot of other people thought this would be an easy elective.
The door at the front of the hall opened and a woman about the Slayer's height with a thick mass of curly hair parted haphazardly on the right side entered the room, thumped a thick stack of papers on the front row in front of a startled student, then wrote on the white board. When she finished, she turned to face the class.
"Welcome to English 1110, World Mythology. I am Dr. Eilidh Adjei. I know you're looking at the first name and saying 'Huh', but it is pronounced 'Ay-lee'. Trust me, it's my name, I know how to say it." She smiled. "And the last name is 'Uh-jye', so the full name is 'Ay-lee Uh-jye'. In case you're wondering, my mother is from Edinburgh, and Eilidh is an old Scottish name, and Adjei is my father's surname, and he is Ghanaian." She uttered a musical 'ping ping ping ping'. "The more you know. Here-" She picked up the stack of papers and placed them directly in the front-row student's hands. "Here, take one, pass the rest along. This-" she held up a copy "-is the course syllabus. I expect you to read it and turn in the signature page at the beginning of our next class. That's all I'm going to say in the way of preparatory remarks. You're adults, this is college, take responsibility for yourselves." She twirled a hand over her head. "Moving on. What is a myth?" She scanned the room. "Somebody better have an answer or make a guess, because I've got nowhere else to be. What's a myth?"
A young man toward the front raised a timorous hand. "A story?"
"Yes, good beginning. At the most basic level, a myth is a story. The word 'mythology' literally means 'a story told by mouth'. Now, what kind of story?"
"One that's made up." A more confident male voice came from the third row.
"All stories are made up," Dr. Adjei shot back. "Be more specific."
"Uh, a story that's not true."
"Define 'not true'." The professor crossed her arms and stared down the respondent. "It gets difficult doesn't it?" She turned to the rest of the class. "How many of you think of a myth as a story that's not true?" A majority of hands shot up and Dr. Adjei nodded. "Most people would define it that way but that is, at best, an incomplete understanding. Myths are stories, yes, and sometimes they are not factually correct, yes, but…" She paused for dramatic effect. "A myth can be factually incorrect and still be emotionally true." Something in that definition, in Dr. Adjei's energy, caused Buffy to sit up a bit straighter. "You see," the teacher continued, "myths are the stories we tell to explain our world."