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Chapter 2

She’s riding her bike, her legs pumping hard, pedaling fast as she can. Her ponytails are whipping behind her, the smell of the neighbor’s freshly cut grass filling her nose. Her knee is skinned and dirt is caked in layers under her fingernails. Her tee shirt is dusty with dried mud from the mud-pies she made earlier.

She flies past the driveway of the house next door, where the moving van is parked. Men are lifting out bureaus and heavily upholstered chairs, grunting orders at each other. Sitting in the driveway, in front of the moving van, is a boy in khaki shorts and a button down oxford. He’s plucking out blades of grass and shredding each one with quiet aggression.

She zooms past, riding to the end of the street. Turns round to cruise by him again. Over and over she rides by, circling him like prey.

After five passes, she stops at the end of his driveway.

“Hi,” she offers.

He looks up, surprised.

“I’m Buffy,” she calls out.

He wrinkles his nose at her, looking disgusted.

She isn’t discouraged though. “I live next door.”

“Good for you,” he grumbles insolently.

“Do you wanna play with me?”

He huffs out a breath. “Does it look like I wanna play?”

He sniffs at his rebuff. “No. It looks like you’re sad.”

He says nothing.

“You’re pretty.” She tells him, hoping that’ll make him feel better.

“WHAT?!?! I am NOT! Stupid brat! Are all Yank girls this dumb? Why don’t you go away and LEAVE ME ALONE! ” He grabs a handful of grass and hurls it at her, for lack of anything else to throw, gets up and stalks into the house.

She sits there on her bike for several minutes, feeling stunned. Then she turns her bike around, heading for her driveway, deciding that she really doesn’t like her new neighbor. AT ALL.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She arrives in Sunnydale a little before 9 at night. Her mother is waiting for her, sitting on the couch reading. When she greets Buffy with a warm hug, she buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, smelling her familiar perfume and the same laundry detergent she’s used since Buffy was a teen.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Mom.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, but I could use a drink.”

“Buffy?!?”

“Some tea, Mom.”

“Oh, of course! I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m not myself right now. I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”

In the kitchen, she gets the mugs she knows are her Mom’s favorites, while Joyce puts the kettle on and settles on the bar stool at the island. They wait quietly for the water to boil. Joyce rubs her hand over her eyes, glad for a few moments of respite, while Buffy digs out tea bags and the sugar bowl with the tiny scooper- spoon.

The kettle whistles away. She motions to her mother to stay put, shutting off the stove, and pouring for them both. The light scent of chamomile, flowery, earthy and comforting, wafts up from the mugs. Buffy wraps her hands around the hot mug on the counter. “So… how is he?”

“He’s a mess. He’s been with his mother for months now, feeding her, giving her pain medication. He read to her, sang to her… I think he won’t know what to do with himself for a while. I’ve been bringing him food every day for almost a month. I’m worried about him, Buffy.”

Her eyes are stinging with holding back tears. “Yeah. Me too…”

“I think it would mean so much to him to see you, to know you came.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Of course it would. The funeral is tomorrow, and then everyone will gather over at his house afterwards. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course I will, Mom. It’s why I came.” She falls silent a moment, then adds, “I came for you both.” She pauses again before adding sorrowfully, “And for Mrs. Price.”

Joyce nods. “I’m gonna turn in now, sweetheart. I’m beat. Your room is ready for you. The bed is made with clean linens, and the bathroom has fresh towels by the sink.”

Buffy walks around the island to loop her arm around her mother’s shoulders, leaning into an awkward hug. “Thanks. I think I still remember my way around, though.”

Joyce gives her a little smile and downs the last of her tea. She stands, but before she heads out of the kitchen, she turns back around. “Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“He asks about you. All the time.”

She can’t say anything to that. It makes her eyes burn harder with unshed tears, her throat constrict. She can’t cry yet, she thinks. There will be no way to hold it back tomorrow. Better stop it up as long as she can, so she’s not wrecked before she even sees him. She manages to choke out, “Goodnight.” In response, Joyce presses her lips together and goes.

Buffy puts her mother’s mug into the sink, rinsing it well. Then she retrieves her own mug from the counter, taking it up the stairs to her room.

With every squeak of the stairs, there is a memory. Remembering him at age 11, sitting on the bottom step, waiting for her to come out to play soccer with him. At age 13, slapping at him as they raced to the top of the stairs, desperate for anything that would give her an advantage over his agility and speed. Him at age 16, waiting for her in the entryway, his tee shirt wet and stuck to his new muscles, a basketball tucked under one arm.

She gets to the top of the stairs, turns into her room. The bed is folded down, the same floral sheets she slept on her senior year in high school. They are threadbare, but an enormous comfort nonetheless. Her lacy curtains blow in the breeze from her open window. That window, which looks out across the side yard, right to his own bedroom window.

His shades are drawn, but they are backlit by the lamp bedside his bed. She knows the color of that light, the way it throws shadows.

She can still see him, lying in his bed, all the silvery contours of his naked abdomen in the moonlight. The hollows of his face, his cheeks dusted by his long spidery lashes. His pale skin, so perfect that it makes her forget to breathe.

She hasn’t forgotten any of it.

She imagines him in bed now. Reading. Or maybe he’s sleeping, having forgotten to turn out the light.
Or, most likely, he’s sitting and hurting. Grieving.

And thinking about her, as much as she is about him.

It is a long time before she can get to sleep. She doesn’t want to close her eyes, afraid that she might miss some movement, afraid she’ll miss seeing the light go out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

TBC





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