(no subject)
After way too long revising and re-working this story, I finally have chapter three of Collision finished. Earlier chapters are here
Chapter 3
“Buffy?”
The art lab proctor, Sandra, smiled apologetically, “studio hours are over,” she said, glancing down at her watch.
Looking up from the proofs spread across the table in front of her, Buffy stared blankly at the heavyset redhead. She looked back down at the black and white pictures and sighed heavily - three hours in the photo lab and she still didn’t have a picture that was useable.
Sliding the glossy sheets into her notebook, Buffy gathered the rest of her materials together and dumped them unceremoniously into her bag. She smiled at Sandra who was patiently waiting by the door, several large textbooks cradled on her hip.
“Sorry about that,” she apologized and Sandra shook her head.
“No big,” she replied, shutting off the lights with her free hand. Buffy held the door open for her and Sandra shifted her books as she reached in her pocket for the keys.
“Anything specific giving you trouble,” Sandra asked, cracking her gum to punctuate the question.
Shaking her head, Buffy slid her arms through the shoulders of her backpack and buttoned her denim jacket. “None of the roll came out the way I wanted,” she explained, “half the pictures are completely useless and the rest are just okay.”
Sandra nodded, turning the key and waiting for the telltale click of the lock.
“That’s rough,” she sympathized, “I’ll be in my office tomorrow afternoon if you need any help.”
“Thanks,” Buffy said, smiling gratefully, “see you later.”
She turned down the long hallway that led out of the building, waving to Sandra who was walking up the staircase to her small closet of an office.
The art building made Buffy feel uneasy when she left in the late afternoons - especially on cloudy days, when long shadows filled the narrow hallways and the darkened windows reflected the light from inside. She pushed open the heavy main door with a sigh - it was only Wednesday but she was ready for the week to be over.
Looking up at the dreary sky, she quickened her pace. Maybe she’d avoid the rain on her way home.
As she crossed the street, a large raindrop fell onto her cheek - so much for that theory. Buffy swung her backpack around to the front of her body and reached inside, searching for her umbrella.
“Shit,” she swore under her breath, sidestepping a doublewide stroller. The rain was falling steadily as she made her way downtown, the large drops soaking through her denim jacket and matting her blonde hair to her scalp.
Buffy stood on the corner of the street and waited for the light to change. She shivered under the relentless downpour, her eyes burning with hot tears. Wiping her eyes carelessly with the back of her hand, Buffy crossed the street, weaving in and out of the heavy foot traffic.
It was a little after five but the sidewalks were already filled with people fleeing their cubicles and office buildings. She hurried past a man holding his New York Times above his head as a pseudo-umbrella, and ducked under the flowered umbrella of a woman in stilettos.
“Only a few more blocks,” Buffy murmured under her breath. Even as she walked through the streets she found herself looking for a familiar face in the crowds of people - except no one looked familiar and everyone had the same look of detachment. They all had places to go and more important things to do, which explained why no one gave a crying college student a second glance on such a miserable day.
Buffy folded her arms across her chest, shivering against the wind and the rain that continued its relentless assault as she made her trek back to her apartment.
At least the torrential downpour was soaking her jacket, which still had a coffee stain from that morning. She’d been hurrying down the steps of her apartment building when her arm caught the edge of a man’s briefcase, sending her travel cup of coffee flying all over her. And since she was already running late, Buffy had no choice but to go to her American literature survey class with a stained shirt and a half-empty mug of coffee.
Ten minutes later she stood shivering in the lobby of her building, waiting for the elevator to arrive. Water dripped down her forehead in long rivulets and Buffy felt like she’d just stepped out of the shower. After what seemed like an eternity the metal doors slid open and Buffy stumbled inside.
She pressed her floor and waited for the elevator to make its ascent. Buffy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so exhausted.
The doors hissed open again and she walked onto the carpeted floor, her wet socks making a terrible squishing noise every time she moved. Ever single muscle in her body was screaming with fatigue and it took tremendous effort to drag her aching feet down the hall towards her apartment door. She was tired and cold - the only thing she wanted was a hot shower and dry clothes.
Buffy leaned heavily against the doorframe, fumbling in her pocket for her key ring.
Her red hands were trembling when she pulled the key ring out, squinting at the deadbolt, trying to get the key inside. It took three tries before the door finally gave way, and Buffy practically fell into her apartment.
“I’m home,” Buffy murmured to herself, pulling her keys out of the apartment door with a heavy sigh.
Slamming the door shut behind her, she clicked the deadbolt out of habit before sliding down to the floor.
Her head fell back against the door, her green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. She shivered, her keys falling from her hands, as the tears she’d been holding back all afternoon slipped like liquid fire from her eyes.
She wiped her eyes and was slowly getting up when she heard someone come into the living room. Without even looking over at which one of her roommates it was - even though Fred was probably with Gunn like she always was - Buffy took off her coat and tossed it in the direction of the sofa.
“Long day,” an unfamiliar male voice asked and she shrieked, turning around to see who was talking to her.
The dark-haired stranger yelped with surprise, taking a step back and practically tripping over the footstool. Buffy stared at him, looking at his long legs, bare chest and plaid boxer shorts quickly, before turning her blushing face towards his.
“Who are you,” she snapped, looking at the half-naked strange guy standing in her living room in a combination of shock and horror. He took a step towards Buffy, holding out his hand.
“Xander Harris,” he supplied with a goofy grin, oblivious to his state of undress. “You must be Buffy.”
“Huh,” she asked, her mouth wide open in astonishment. “Do I know you?”
Xander shook his head sheepishly, “I’m a friend of Faith’s.”
“Friend is such a simple word, isn’t it Xander,” Faith purred from the doorway. A sheet was wrapped loosely around her body and Buffy looked from one brunette to another, trying not to stare.
She felt like she was trapped inside a porn video.
Buffy sighed heavily, wiping at her red eyes with the back of her hand. “Look it was nice to meet you, but I’m just going to go … to my room.”
Without looking back at the pair in the living room, Buffy practically fled down the hall. She pushed open her bedroom and stumbled inside, kicking the door shut as she flung herself onto her bed.
Her wet clothes stuck to her body but Buffy was too upset to care. She kicked off her shoes and curled into a ball against her pillow as she reached onto her bedside table for her cordless phone.
Dialing a familiar number, she looked over at her alarm clock. It was a little after three in New York, so her mom should be getting ready to go to lunch back in California.
The phone rang four times then five. Buffy stared blankly at the ceiling, where was her mom? Mothers were always supposed to be around whenever their daughters had terrible days, no matter what coast the two were on.
After seven rings the answering machine picked up. “Thank you for calling the Main Street Gallery. Our hours are Monday through Thursday, 9 am until 3 pm. If you’d like to place an order, please press 1. If you’re calling in reference to picking up an order, please press 2. Otherwise please leave a message after the beep.”
Buffy hung up the phone with a harsh sigh, only to punch in her mom’s cell phone number a second later. Even though her mom hardly ever turned on the phone, it was worth a try.
Two rings later the call went straight into voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, Buffy hung up for the second time and tried her home number. Four rings later the answering machine picked up and the mechanical voice asked her to leave a message after the beep.
“Dammit,” Buffy swore, hot tears spilling down her face. Throwing the phone onto her comforter Buffy ground her head into the pillow, growling in frustration.
She turned onto her side, curling her body into a tight ball as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. I want to go home, she thought miserably, wishing that she were anywhere other than the City.
In the hallway outside her door she could hear Faith’s muffled voice and Buffy wondered what her roommate was doing. Now that she was safely on the other side of the apartment with a closed door between her and Faith’s half-naked guy of the moment, Buffy could laugh about the situation. Xander was probably just as embarrassed as she was - although he could be one of those strange exhibitionist types who enjoyed walking around and shocking the hell out of everyone.
It was impossible to tell; in the three short weeks since the semester had started, Faith had brought an array of guys back to the apartment. Some looked like displaced hippies while others could have passed for members of an underground grunge band.
Buffy couldn’t remember seeing the same guy twice but that was Faith’s business, not hers. She did everything possible to avoid infringing on her suitemate’s string of guys, not because of the awkwardness factor but because there were so many unspoken boundaries that existed between the two.
Her third suitemate, Fred, was hardly ever in the apartment since her boyfriend had his own place a few blocks away - one that didn’t come complete with roommates and terribly ugly furniture. Fred seemed nice enough but Buffy hardly got a chance to talk to her because the petite brunette was either on her way out the door or coming back from a long day with a pile of books in her arms.
Shivering again, Buffy sat up slowly and began to peel off her wet clothes. She tossed her jacket onto the floor, followed by her burgundy t-shirt, until there was a nice pile of dripping cloth on the carpet. Padding over to her closet, Buffy pulled her fluffy bathrobe out and slipped her arms through the white sleeves.
She slid on her shower sandals and opened her bedroom door, peering down the hall to make sure she didn’t see any more half-naked people running around. As she ducked back inside the room to retrieve her shower caddy, she heard high-pitched squeals coming from the bathroom - squeals that were quickly followed by masculine grunts.
Buffy’s cheeks turned bright red and she hastily retreated back inside her room. Locking the door behind her, she rested her forehead against the painted wood. “Today’s not my day,” she complained, tears slipping down her cheeks and off the end of her nose.
Her stomach growled, reminding Buffy that she hadn’t eaten since lunch - if a vanilla smoothie and half a hot pretzel counted as a meal. Pinching the bridge of her nose between her index fingers, Buffy turned away from the door. She walked over to her bed and picked up her cordless phone again, dialing her home number again.
The phone rang three times but on the fourth ring, a breathless voice answered. “Hello,” Joyce Summers exclaimed, leaning against the center island in her kitchen as the backdoor clicked closed behind her.
At the sound of her mom’s voice, Buffy burst into tears again. She sniffled loudly, “hi,” she whimpered.
On the West Coast, Joyce’s face wrinkled in concern. “Buffy? Is that you baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s wrong,” Joyce asked, her concerned ‘mom’ voice making Buffy feel marginally better.
“Everything,” Buffy murmured, “I hate school.”
“Oh Buffy,” her mother exclaimed. To say that Joyce had been worried about her only child living so far away was an understatement - she’d been petrified at the idea and still hadn’t completely warmed to it.
Oblivious to her mom’s concerns, Buffy continued to rant about her day. “My literature professor is the most arrogant jerk on the face of the planet. He assigns us all these obscure works and then got all pissed off today because no one had any insights into them. Like how the hell are we supposed to be insightful when we can’t pronounce the fucking author’s name?”
“Language,” Joyce chided automatically and Buffy exhaled loudly.
“Mom,” she whined, drawing out the name in a voice that made Joyce wince.
“Buffy,” Joyce mimicked and in spite of her bad mood, Buffy had to roll her eyes at her mom’s corniness.
“You’re a dork,” she teased her mom, sniffling loudly into the phone.
“Mmm. So you were saying with that terrible language,” Joyce prompted.
“Oh,” Buffy exhaled a sigh, “so the professor gets all pissy and he says that because none of us contributed to the discussion that we have to write a ten page paper on how the play affected us. Which is such a waste of time.”
“And here I thought that I was sending you to school so you could do crazy things like write papers,” Joyce teased.
“You’re not helping,” Buffy snapped, but in spite of her horrible day she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She stared across the room at her faded poster of Monet’s Waterlilies, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest.
“Mm-hmm.” In her sun-drenched kitchen Joyce massaged the back of her neck with one hand, staring out the window at her overgrown vegetable garden.
“So how was your day,” Buffy asked, tired of her ranting for the moment.
“Alright,” Joyce said, her attention turning from the garden to her only child. “Oh did I tell you that Rupert’s working for me on the weekends?”
“Really,” Buffy exclaimed in surprise. “I thought you were going to get someone from the high school to do it.”
“I was,” Joyce admitted. She paused for a moment and chuckled quietly to herself. “I did in a way,” she murmured under her breath.
Buffy giggled, twirling a piece of her wet hair around her index finger. “Yeah, because Giles is that cool,” she teased her mother.
On the other end of the phone Joyce let out an un-ladylike snort.
“Be nice,” she half-heartedly admonished, and Buffy giggled louder in response.
“So how are things with you two,” Buffy asked, unable to resist teasing Joyce some more.
“Things,” Joyce repeated, acting like she had no idea what Buffy was talking about. “There’s no thing.”
“Uh-huh. You and Giles all alone in the gallery for long hours - with all those dark corners to hide - and there’s nothing?”
“Buffy!”
Joyce pretended to be horrified by the idea but the laughter in her voice gave her away. Even though she’d known Rupert for years - he’d lived across the street from her and Buffy since they moved to Sunnydale - there was still an occasional moment when she wondered about being more than friends. But those moments were few and far between - she wouldn’t risk losing his friendship and depriving Buffy of her father-figure.
“How’s your photography class going,” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Buffy groaned. “Terrible,” she admitted, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
“Really,” Joyce asked, genuinely surprised. Her daughter had always loved taking pictures - Buffy’s favorite toy when she was younger had been Joyce’s old Nikon - a clunky piece of dented plastic and scratched metal.
“It’s just weird,” Buffy said, “I mean the professor’s nice and all, but the pictures don’t look right.”
“You’re trying to hard,” Joyce supplied and her daughter exhaled loudly.
“Thanks Mom,” she said, a sarcastic edge to her voice.
Joyce shook her head, her permed curls falling across her shoulders. “Welcome,” she chirped, her voice irritatingly perky.
Growling into the receiver, Buffy flopped onto her stomach, her face pressed into her pillow. Her mom was such a pain sometimes
“So how’re your roommates,” Joyce asked, stepping over the long phone cord and leaning into the refrigerator. The glass shelves were practically empty and she moved aside the half-empty carton of pork lo-mein to see if there was any lettuce left for a salad.
“They’re alright,” Buffy said, punctuating her explanation with an embarrassed giggle. She knew her mom wouldn’t appreciate hearing about her encounter with Faith’s ‘friend’ in the living room - something that was starting to seem more amusing than awkward. So instead of talking about Xander and her roommate, Buffy told her mom about how she’d redecorated her room and the awesome purse she found in a boutique on her way back from calculus.
Ten minutes later Buffy hung up the phone and flipped onto her back with a grunt. Her hair was still a stringy mess and when she wiped her eyes her fingers came away coated with brown mascara. Sliding off the side of her bed, she stared at herself in the mirror hung on the back of her door.
“I look like a drowned rat,” she proclaimed dejectedly, re-tying the sash of her bathroom. She opened her door and peered cautiously out into the hallway. The only sound that greeted her was the pounding bass of Faith’s music coming from the room across the hall.
Buffy breathed a sigh of relief and picked up her shower caddy from the floor. She padded down to the bathroom, checking the small room carefully before walking inside. Nothing looked out of place and for once Faith had been considerate and left the window open.
She closed the window quickly, shutting out the cold fall breeze. Turning the knobs on the shower all the way to the left, she waited for the warm steam to fill the bathroom.
Maybe tomorrow won’t be as bad, she thought, staring blankly at the girl reflected in the mirror. Outside a clap of thunder sounded and the lights in the bathroom flickered in response.
Buffy sighed heavily - no way tomorrow could be worse than this, she thought.
TBC....