I know I haven't got whatever it is that makes other kids cool, whatever it is that bitch-queen Cordelia and her little posse have that they think makes them so special -- what, to be fair, everybody thinks makes them so special. I think it's what my mother calls "social IQ," but I also think that for once in her life my mother isn't using a technical term to describe some psychological phenomenon. I think she doesn't understand any better than I do why I don't fit in. After all, she was popular when she was growing up, even while letting other kids see that she was smart, so she can't understand why it doesn't work for me. Not that her suggestions help; since when have shrinks given actually practicable advice, even to their own children?
But if I haven't got that special something, neither, evidently, have Xander or Jesse, which is probably what makes us so compatible. Personally, I think Xander's wonderful, both funny and handsome, and I think I fell in love with him a few years ago, not that he'd ever notice. I'm not sure why he won't notice -- I mean, it's not like there's anyone else he's looking at -- but I guess it's too much to hope for that my best friend will notice drab old Willow Rosenburg as anything other than his best friend. It's got to do with that mysterious missing ingredient, and it's no more likely than the possibility that Cordelia would ever deign to give Jesse something other than the nasty, sharp side of her tongue, for all that he's been panting after her like a Labrador puppy for a good two years now. Xander is someone I could understand falling in love with (well, I did, didn't I?). He has redeeming qualities, lots of them. But Cordelia? I pretty much figure that Jesse's gone slightly crazy. Wait, scrap the slightly.
So given my lack of whatever-it-is and the choice company I keep, I've never been surprised that Cordelia actively seeks me out for picking on. Oh, she'll be nasty enough to Xander and Jesse if either of them is idiot enough to engage her in conversation, but she won't initiate contact with them, unless they're with me anyways and she can attack us as a group. That's because they're boys, and singling them out for general Cordelia nastiness might suggest to the fertile breeding ground of tenth grade gossip that she secretly liked them. I'm fair game, however, and Cordelia takes full advantage of that. A sample of today's fine selection of verbal torture: "Willow! Nice dress! Good to know you've seen the softer side of Sears!" (which really shouldn't hurt, but somehow it still does, although not a rage-sick hurt like sometimes) and general pointed comments made in passing about our small and outcast trio in order to elicit giggles from Harmony and Aura. She was indeed on top form today, but I think my mother would have suggested that this was to cover a deep unease -- and I'm figuring that if that's the case, it might have had something to do with the dead body that fell out of Aura's locker. Which is disturbing and freaky and trauma-inducing to say the least, except for that somehow it doesn't seem entirely real, more just like some student prank. If Cordelia's traumatized by it, it's because she thinks she can work it to her advantage. I don't think she was even there when Aura found the body. But they called a teacher's meeting about it (about the body, I mean, not about Cordelia's disturbed psyche), and I saw the new librarian, Mr. Giles, coming out of the library with a really old and musty-looking book tucked under his arm. I didn't know we had any books like that in Sunnydale High library, but I heard that he brought a bunch of books with him from England, historical volumes and biographies and things, so maybe it's one of them. He's sort of cute, in an older guy sort of way, and he has a sexy English accent, and I think he must be really intelligent because I also heard that back in England he was a museum curator.
My parents are away at some conference halfway across the country, and that's not exactly a newsflash, so there's nothing to stop me from going to the Bronze tonight, which, given today's interesting events, is something I'm fairly certain my parents would disapprove of. Usually, however, they don't object to my nightly excursions to Sunnydale's one "happening" place, since they say that interacting with my peers in such an environment, outside of the formalized strictures of school, can only be of benefit to my development as a normal adult member of society.
I pick up the phone to call Xander and ask if he's Bronze-ing tonight, but the line just rings on the other end. So I change my clothes, make myself a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich, and grab one of those little red cardboard boxes of raisins that always seem to find their way into your bag of Halloween candy, or into your lunchbox. Check to make sure I have some money (I do), and head over to the Bronze. It's crowded when I get there, but there are empty stools at the bar since everybody is up dancing to the live band, which tonight is Sprung Monkey. Through the crush of people I spot Jesse, evidently in the process of being rejected yet again by Cordelia. I'm not sure he'd welcome my company, as he's bound to be in a spiteful mood, and anyway, I've had enough reminders of Cordelia's existence for one day.
This evening isn't shaping up very well so far, with no Xander apparent yet and with Jesse now out of the picture, at least until Xander shows up, and I'm starting to think this day must just be generally cursed. I'm half-tempted to find a newspaper horoscope and see if it agrees with my assessment, but I don't see any discarded papers lying around. Besides, my parents have often lectured me on the follies of superstitious behavior and the lack of merit in any sort of astrological beliefs. Not that their disapproval would stop me, but still.
So I stay sitting on my stool, eating my raisins, and my eyes drift up to the balcony, and I think I see Mr. Giles leaning against the railing. He's looking worried and pensive, and I wonder if he ever smiles. And then I wonder what he's doing at the Bronze, as teachers rarely set foot on the premises. It's sort of an unspoken rule. But he is new, and maybe nobody's told him that the Bronze really isn't a teacher sort of place. I'm thinking about going to talk to him -- maybe he'll let me see that old volume I caught a glimpse of earlier -- when I feel a cool touch on my elbow, accompanied, apparently, by the words, "What's a cutie like you doing without a date for the evening?" I say apparently because it's really outside the realms of any possibility that such a sentence would be addressed to me. But I turn around and there's a boy in a jacket with rolled up sleeves and a bright red-and-gold-patterned shirt looking at me with a querying expression, and I figure that means he did actually just ask me something.
"Um," I gulp, feeling words desert me in the presence of a member of the opposite sex who isn't Xander or Jesse. (Speaking of which, where is Xander, anyway?) Clever, Willow, lack of talking and producing coherent speech will obviously win you many admirers. But the boy seems unfazed, and he smiles un unfairly handsome smile.
"I'm Thomas," he says. When I fail to make any reply, except possibly a nervous sort of clucking deep in my throat, due to my voice's lack of cooperation, he prompts, "What may I have the pleasure of calling you?"
"Uh, W-Willow," I manage to stammer. Then, because I feel like he deserves something more than that for his efforts, I add, "I, uh, I don't think I've seen you around here. You don't go to Sunnydale High, do you? I go there. To Sunnydale. High. Are you in college? I'm not in college yet, well, I guess I just sort of implied that anyway, but I'm going to go to college in a few years. But I don't think I'll go to UCS." My eyes widen belatedly at this thought, that a college boy might actually be talking to me. Then he'll really be wanting intelligent, perhaps witty, conversation, and given the sample of babble I've just produced, I am doubly certain that his interest in me will be short-lived. But he just smiles again, if anything more broadly, and shakes his head. "No, I'm not in college. Actually, I'm not from around here. My friend and I," he gestures over his shoulder, "are in town for a few days, ah, visiting relatives, and we thought we'd scope out the nightlife." I look where he pointed and see a blond girl in a short blue skirt, black cardigan, talking to some boy. Wait, no. Not some boy -- that's Jesse. He looks utterly captivated. And then, much to my amazement, the two of them head out the door.
Thomas has been watching them too, and a funny, triumphant sort of expression comes over his face. He turns back to me. "I think they're probably, ah, going for ice cream. Would you like to go for ice cream, too?"
Part of me wants to say yes. Really, truly it does. But I'm sure that Xander will show up in just a few minutes, and he'll be disappointed if he doesn't find me or Jesse. And since Jesse just bailed, that leaves me. I don't want to ditch Xander, and a small thought is niggling at the back of my brain, that if Jesse's not here, maybe, just maybe I can convince Xander to dance with me. It's happened on occasion, it's not asking too much that it might happen again. So I shake my head and try for a smile. "Actually, I'm, uh, waiting for someone, but if I see you here again, maybe we can go for ice cream some other time." Where did that come from? Well, too late not to say it.
"OK, well, I'll hold you to that," says Thomas, and he gets that funny look again. Then he turns around and saunters off, running his fingers through his hair. Stupid, dull Willow, chasing off boys as though you don't want to talk to them. But if Xander does show . . . and just then he does, so that's all right, and he gets this proud sort of gleam in his eye when I tell him about Jesse going off with a girl. I don't tell him about Thomas.
Jesse isn't at school today, but I'm figuring he's probably sick. Or else just playing hooky, which he has been known to do on occasion. I forget about his absence after a while, because during our computer lab Cordelia gives me a wonderful opening for some revenge. She's trying to get Harmony to copy my code, which is useless because I finished it in five minutes and have been happily surfing the web since then. So Harmony gives up and the two of them go back to the old-fashioned method of doing one's own work, and then, as I'm preparing to print out a page of specs on a new laptop, I hear Harmony announce to Cordelia that she thinks the program is done.
"Finally the nightmare ends!" exclaims Cordelia in a long-suffering tone. "Okay, so how do we save it?"
No. There's no way I'm that mean. It's vicious and spiteful and . . . but . . . this is Cordelia we're talking about. And somehow the little pit of ice suddenly nestling in my stomach isn't enough to halt the word that leaps out of my mouth. "Deliver," I say, as I get up to fetch my printout. And, true to my hopeful and almost fearful expectations, I see Cordelia hunt over the keyboard with her finger and punch the delete key. So I escape the classroom before she can realize it was my fault (actually, she probably wouldn't have blamed me, I surprised even myself with that burst of vicious daring) and spend the rest of the afternoon in an on-top-of-the-world sort of mood. Enough so that I decide to head over to the Bronze early, six-ish, even though Xander mentions that he won't be there until around eight.
Tonight, there's no live band playing at the Bronze, so there's just a CD playing in the background. I begin to wonder what possessed me to come to the Bronze this early, on my own, knowing that neither of my two friends would be there. Could it, I wonder, have been an unspoken, even unacknowledged, hope that Thomas might again be here? But he isn't, and he probably won't be, and I order a mocha from the bartender to keep myself occupied while I begin to realize that there are nearly two hours to crawl through before Xander shows up. By the time I finish my mocha, the room is filling up, so I lean back on the couch I've selected and watch people dancing. Time ticks on, and I'm enjoying the music, and as people trickle into the Bronze I can see the sun sinking in stages through the open door. The CD ends, and out of the corner of my eye I see the bartender put a new disc in the machine; music begins to play again. You fight the good fight / You fight the good war. I see Cordelia and her gang taking over a corner of the dance floor, shrink back against the couch so as not to be noticed. I must have succeeded because when, much to my surprise, Jesse comes in the door, he ignores me and heads straight for Cordelia. He looks pale, so I figure he was actually ill today, not just playing hooky, but I also think he must be slightly touched in the head, given that usually he waits at least a week between rejections to pursue Cordelia onto the dance floor of the Bronze again. It's sort of a tradition. I shift in my seat, prepare to get up and put a stop to his foolishness, throwing myself in the line of fire, as it were, but I stop when I see something astonishing. Cordelia has, of course, started to leave the dance floor in the face of Jesse's approach, but Jesse coolly stops her, takes her hand, and leads her back onto the floor as another song starts. And then they begin to dance, slowly, and Jesse's moving like he doesn't, self-assured and commanding, and I think he's finally got what we've been missing all these years. Whatever that may be.
They're dancing, and I'm pondering; there's a bit of commotion outside and a group of people push through the door. One of them takes large strides towards the stage, leaps up on it, grabs the microphone. Something is wrong with his face, it's all ridged and lumpy, and there's a dark triangle sort of shape painted on his forehead. "Ladies and Gentlemen! There is no cause for alarm." He pauses, and his chuckle is almost a growl. "Actually, there is cause for alarm. It just won't do any good." I hear people screaming, wonder if I'm screaming myself, but I'm scared, and I think I'm more likely whimpering. "This is a glorious night!" continues the man, his grin widening; he is not oblivious to the screams, but neither does he heed them. And at his next words, I understand the concept of marrow freezing in one's bones. "It is also the last one any of you shall ever see. Bring me the first."
I can't help myself; I watch, captivated, as another man with a misshapen face drags the doorman up to the stage. Somewhere in the panicked recesses of my mind a voice is saying no, no, this is impossible, that doorman is frickin' huge, my god what's going on. . . . And the doorman is speaking, too, a bold plea in a voice that is almost doing well at suppressing the ragged fear that flickers around its edges: "What do you guys want, man, huh? You want money?" And, echoing one of my own thoughts, "Man, what's wrong with your faces?"
The stocky man on the stage grips him around the throat, wraps his other arm around the doorman's head. "Watch me, people. Fear is like an elixir. It's almost like blood." Blood? And then his lips peel back, clearly bare fangs that I was sure I was imagining until now, his head dips down, his mouth fastens on the doorman's neck, and the doorman screams. Seconds tick by, and I think I am not the only one frozen by fear, by the sheer incredibility of this all. Then the doorman's body falls away with a thud, another word peals across the room. "Next."
Unresistingly, person after person is dragged across the room, and I try to will myself into the fabric of the couch so that I don't become one of them. An unchoreographed movement just inside my field of vision somehow breaks the trance, draws my gaze, and I watch with little comprehension as a blond girl bounces up to a couple, a boy and a girl, gestures emphatically; and then, as falling snowflakes slowly create an unbroken vista of white, like tiles turned over in a game of Memory, recognition sparks, pieces of a puzzle are revealed. The couple: Jesse, Cordelia. The blond girl: Jesse's acquaintance from last night. And Jesse's face: changed. Ridged, lumpy. And his eyes are the same glaring yellow as the rest of them. Cordelia's face is blanched with sickly terror, while Jesse and the other are clearly quarrelling over her, for Jesse is gripping her arm with proprietary fierceness. But the girl says something that causes him to let her go, discontent writ large upon his face. And his gaze, previously so blessedly focused, turns unerringly towards me.
Before this, I was scared. Scared in a small-child-watching-a-horror-film sort of way. But now my heart whams into double-time, a frisson of fear snakes up my neck and explodes with full force into all my limbs, leaving me trembling with an unholy sick dread in my stomach as Jesse paces, cat-like, towards me.
"Ah, Willow," Jesse drawls. "Did Xander leave you alone again? Did my buddy desert you, leave you here for my . . . delectation?"
He sinks down beside me on the couch, runs a finger down my cheek. A cold finger. And he laughs. A cold laugh. "You're afraid I'm going to give you to him, aren't you?" "Him" is the creature up on the stage, there's no question. "And you don't want to die, do you?" He leans towards me, his leer a mockery of my Jesse's smile. "But I wouldn't do that to my buddy Willow, would I? No," he sighs, voice whispering papery through his lips, "I have a present for you."
Lightning quick, a striking snake, he is on me, fangs buried in my neck, and there is pain, oh so much, and I'm drowning in red haze god god going away now red to black dissolve losing myself who am . . .
And this is what it's like, and I look at Jesse and lick the corner of his mouth clean, where there is a smear of red, taste my life's essence, how pure and sweet and good it is, and I want more. "Xander," I whisper in Jesse's ear, "has a big surprise coming, doesn't he?" And I laugh, so pleased with myself, ready or not here I come my darling Xander. Slide down from the couch, blow a farewell kiss, I'm out the door feeling the air dancing over my face like a lover's caress, never felt it before like this, and oh isn't it good to be . . . let's face it, not alive. My languid, purposeful stride takes me past the empty playground where rubbish blows across asphalt in the night's black breeze, and it's empty but at the edge there's a kid with a mess of brown curls peering through the chain-link fence, small fingers twined around the thin metal, and I say hey kid, wanna play a game, and we play a game, and his small fingers grow limp and cold in mine and the goodness of his blood is ambrosia and this is what I was missing.
I get to Xander's house, he's just coming down the steps, locking the door behind him, oh hey, Will, whatcha doing here, he says, I thought I was meeting you at the Bronze. You were, I say, but I got bored and I wanted you so I came to get you. I take his hand, draw him towards me, he doesn't resist, but laughs, and I can smell the rich red blood running just under the surface of his skin, singing and roaring like the surf of the sea, but I wait. Patience is a virtue, but it can be fun for a bit. Hide-and-seek, the cat stalks the mouse, hickory-dickory-dock.
"I saw Jesse," I tell him as we walk, my fingers twined in his. "He danced with Cordelia," and I see disbelief register on his face. And he danced with me too, I say, oh how we danced. "And now we can dance," and I smile up at him and his eyes grow wide and sick and his heart goes pam-pam in his chest and doesn't that just make me want him all the more. Xander, baby, you're all mine.
"Will, what's up? What
happened . . ." his hand gestures, filling in for vanished
words, and I lay my finger across his lips, hush hush, Xander. I bite buttons off his shirt, feel each one like a cool slick pearl in my mouth, run my tongue along his warm naked chest, hear his strangled gasp. My hand slides down inside his trousers like I've always wanted to, finds a warm softness of skin, he's too tall but he heeds me when I call, and my teeth pierce his throbbing neck. My Xander, all mine.
My entire being tingles,
and I think this is what I was aiming for in all
those secret attempts to masturbate in the dark, only now there's no sense of burning shame, because this is the way the world should work, and at my neck where my clothes end and my flesh begins, I draw forth a crimson tide that laps over milky skin to feed my darling Xander. So greedy he is as he fastens on to me, so wonderful, and my hand continues to caress him as he dies and lives, and a groan rips through him as he comes and becomes fully alive, as alive as either of us will ever be again. You're mine, I tell him, mine mine, and he agrees, and chucks me under the chin, and lazily we kiss, fangs hard and tongues soft.
And together as one, the predator that stalks the shadows, we lope off into the darkness to revel in our new birth.