by Nancy Holder
She honestly didn’t know what was more shocking, the idea that this little trophy might be so prized by her principal that he would have displayed it so prominently, or that his first name was Cecil.
Suddenly, Cecil’s face was next to hers. “That Bobby Matthews thought he was so tough, but I sure showed him, didn’t I?” he said, the exuberance on his face a clear indication that Bobby, whoever he was, hadn’t cracked the top five in the spelling bee.
“You sure did?” Buffy replied, unsure how to proceed.
Cecil smiled warmly at her as he gently picked up the trophy, blew on it to create some condensation, then rubbed it vigorously with his shirtsleeve. Once he was satisfied with the faint gleam of the fake bronze leaf, he restored it to its place of honor, nudging it slightly a few times to make sure its position was perfect.
“So … um … ,” Buffy began, wondering when he was going to demand to know what she was doing in his bedroom and begin to describe in detail the many ways he was now going to expel her.
His next question came out of the blue, even more so than the last comment, if that was possible.
“Do you like comic books?” he asked sweetly.
Okay, am I on “Demon Candid Camera?” Buffy thought. She was starting to wonder if all of this—the gateway, the house that looked like a set from Leave It to Beaver, and, most of all, “Cecil”—was some kind of demon practical joke.
Maybe demons don’t have cable and this is what they do for fun.
Cecil was waiting expectantly for an answer. When she didn’t respond right away, he dashed over to his bed and lifted the mattress from the box spring to reveal dozens of comics, most of which looked like they’d been read and reread many times.
“I’ve got Denizens of the Dead, I Was a Teenage Zombie, The Creature Within—only volumes three through seven, though. Once the creature gets his heart back and starts going all lovey-dovey with Miss Constance, I think the story really goes downhill, don’t you? Oh, and I also have the very first edition of The Ascendant—have you heard of that one yet? It’s pretty new.”
Buffy’s head started to spin. She hated this man. He had never once been anything less than horrible to her. He’d taken every bit of power entrusted in him by the school board and wielded it toward his own perverse little ends. Human or not, he was evil. What began to dawn on her through the haze was the fact that he hadn’t always been the man she knew. Once, many, many years ago, he had been little Snyder. He had been Cecil, in a bedroom with sailboat wallpaper, and with a best friend who was a stuffed snake.
Once, Snyder had been a child.
And apparently, once wasn’t enough.
To all intents and purposes, the man who had terrorized every moment of her school life for the past year, starting with his insistence that she, Willow, and Xander humiliate themselves at the school talent show, and including the Parent-Teacher Night for which he’d made her create posters and refreshments so that he could corner Joyce and share with her his conviction that Buffy belonged in a juvenile detention facility rather than on his campus, had vanished. He stood before her barefoot, but still wearing his brown pin-striped suit and black clip-on tie, every last inch an adult, but with the mentality of a ten-year-old boy.
Take a moment and marvel at the incongruity.
Okay. Marveling done.
Cecil was still waiting for an answer. Buffy moved closer to the bed and took a good look at his comic book collection. In one sense, it wasn’t disappointing. Apparently, even as a small child his tastes had leaned toward the dark side. Image after image of hell-demons mutilating humans, brain-eating zombies, and something that looked vaguely like a half-man, half-giant spider assaulted her eyes. That had to be a sign of something, right?
Maybe it would be more disturbing if he spent his time reading Pat the Bunny, Buffy had to admit.
“Um … Cecil,” Buffy said hesitantly.
“If you don’t like comic books, that’s cool,” Cecil said, closing the mattress lid on his treasure trove. “A lot of girls I know aren’t into them.”
“You know a lot of girls?” Buffy couldn’t help but ask.
“Oh, sure.” Cecil shrugged, obviously trying to play it down. “There’s Marsha, who has had a crush on me since third grade. And Susan. I’m gunning for her this year.”
“Gunning?” Buffy asked, half hoping he didn’t mean what she feared he meant.
“Yeah,” Cecil said, nodding toward his trophy. “She took fourth place in the spelling bee last year, but this time it’s going to be different. I mean, anybody can spell ‘abacus,’ right?”
“Not in my experience,” Buffy replied.
“Sure they can,” Cecil said, punching her playfully on the arm. “Abacus. A-b-a-c-u-s. Abacus,” he demonstrated. “Want me to use it in a sentence?”
“Please don’t,” Buffy answered quickly. There was something so … she hated to think it, but … so needy about young Cecil.
“She took fourth in the final round on ‘abacus’ after I got knocked out by ‘awl.’”
“You don’t know how to spell ‘all’?” Buffy found herself asking in spite of herself.
“Not ‘all,’” Cecil corrected her, “‘awl.’”
“Oh,” Buffy replied, as if that had cleared it all up for her. As she and Todd had discussed more than once this past week, synonyms had never been her strong suit.
“Still, Bobby cracked like a cheap piggy bank,” Cecil went on. “Want to know how I beat him?”
“Okay,” Buffy said, absolutely certain that she didn’t.
“It was just the six of us. Only five get trophies, so I knew I had to get rid of one of them. Rachel was a lock. Principal Dumbhead Donovan just gave her ‘totalitarian’ because he likes her. Her mom gives him and all the other teachers cookies at Christmastime. It’s bribery, but what are you going to do? Sun and Ashley are the smartest girls in the whole school. They have the entire Oxford English Dictionary memorized. There’s no way you’re going to beat them. Which left Bobby and Susan. Now, I know Susan hates spiders, but I hadn’t thought far ahead enough to bring a few spiders in my pocket to shake her. Won’t make that mistake again this year, that’s for sure. But Bobby … he’s a sweater. Can’t handle the pressure. So just before he goes up for his final-round word, I lean over and whisper in his ear, ‘Did you see that?’”
“What?” Buffy asked, jumping to look over her shoulder.
“No, that’s what I said to him: ‘Did you see that?’” Cecil said, continuing his story.
“Oh, right.”
“Then I pointed to the front row where Margaret Johnson was staring up at him. He’s had the hots for Margaret since kindergarten. He’d kill for her. But she’s always liked Chad. So then I say, ‘Margaret just waved at you.’ And he says, ‘No, she didn’t.’ And then I said, ‘Yeah, she did. Better not screw it up now, Bobby.’ Then I patted him on the back, like I was his friend, you know … like I wanted him to do well, when all I know for sure is that he probably can’t spell his name anymore if he thinks Margaret might actually like him. And sure enough, his word is ‘circumstance,’ and he choked … choked … choked so hard.…”
Cecil slapped his thigh and almost doubled over with laughter. “‘Circumstance,’” he began in what Buffy could only assume was an imitation of poor Bobby Matthews. “‘C-e-r,’” Cecil continued, now starting to suffocate on his glee. “Ding. That was the end of Bobby. You know, it was almost too easy.”
“Sounds like it.” Buffy nodded.
“Just like when Spiderhead took on the Green Onion. Green Onion’s all talking tough and, boom! Spiderhead slashes him right across the throat. Took his head clean off. Want to see?” Cecil said, grabbing the comic book still lying open on his bed.
“That’s okay, Cecil,” Buffy interrupted, then asked, “Um … is anyone else here right now? I mean … is your dad home?”
Cecil’s face clouded over momentarily. “He’s dead,” he said simply.
“Oh,
” Buffy replied immediately. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mom said it was a hunting accident, but he’d never gone hunting before that one time and I’m pretty sure a quail can’t do that much damage,” Cecil said. “Maybe killer quail from the fifth dimension, but I don’t—”
“Is your mom home?” Buffy interrupted.
“Sure,” Cecil replied, brightening instantly. “Oh … it’s meat loaf night. Want to stay for meat loaf? My mom makes the best meat loaf in the whole wide world.”
“That would be great,” Buffy lied.
Cecil inhaled deeply.
“Mmmmm,” he almost moaned with delight. “She added lots of extra garlic tonight, I can smell it. Just the way I like it.”
“Sounds yummy.” Buffy nodded in a manner she hoped was convincing.
“Are your shoes dirty?” Cecil asked, suddenly concerned.
“I don’t … I don’t really think so,” Buffy replied, automatically checking the soles of her sneakers.
“My mom won’t stand for a dirt trail,” Cecil warned. “She works too hard to put up with that kind of nonsense. Maybe you’d better leave your shoes up here with mine. That way, she won’t even ask.” At this, Cecil crossed to his closet and slid one of the doors open so that Buffy could clearly see six pairs of adult-Snyder’s shoes lined up like good soldiers.
Wait a minute.
There were actually five and a half pairs, Buffy mentally corrected herself. At the far end, right next to the white wingtips, was a single black dress shoe, one of the shoes, if memory served, that Snyder usually wore to school.
“Oh, I’ll risk it,” Buffy replied.
Suddenly, as Cecil shut the closet door, a singsongy nasal voice shrilled through the air.
“Oh, Cecil … time for dinner.”
Cecil’s face went slack.
“Cecil?” Buffy said. When he didn’t respond, she waved a hand in front of his face. “Cecil … are you in there?”
Without a word, Cecil walked through the doorway and down the hall toward the stairs.
Buffy glanced around the room once more to make certain there was nothing else about retro demon dimensions she might need to know. There wasn’t. Kneeling, she opened her weapons bag and fished around for the ax. She’d so wanted to try the mace, but this wasn’t practice time. Killing demons usually meant beheading, and that was best accomplished with a really sharp slicer. Besides, she had no idea what she’d find when she entered that kitchen.
Buffy rose and took a deep breath to calm herself. The house had been creepy enough. Having what had passed for a civilized discussion with her principal was almost more than her brain could wrap itself around, even if it was a younger version of him.
Okay, she thought.
Time to meet Mommy Dearest.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Buffy made her way gingerly down the staircase and passed through the entry hall, pausing behind the short wall that separated the entry from the dining room. From the sound of clinking dishes still coming from the kitchen, it seemed that both Cecil and his mother had not entered the dining room yet, but Buffy poked her head quickly into the room, just to check. As she’d suspected, it was empty, though there were now two presidential place settings laid out neatly on the table, along with cloth napkins, shiny flatware, and a pitcher of water, already sweating with condensation.
Buffy didn’t know exactly why she was so hesitant to face whatever was waiting for her behind that swinging door. Clearly, Cecil wasn’t going to be any kind of threat to her. Apart from the unsettling possibility that he might ask her to join him for a sleepover, she didn’t think there was much he could throw at her in his condition that she couldn’t handle.
His mother—well, that was definitely going to be a different story, whether or not she was the demon Buffy’d come through the gateway to kill.
Mothers, whether they were human or demon, shared a willingness to defend their offspring that was particularly dangerous. No matter how often they had butted heads over the years, Buffy had never doubted for a moment that Joyce would willingly have thrown herself in front of a bus for her daughter. Add to that protectiveness demon strength and speed, and you had yourself an enemy that Buffy could not relish facing.
Still, her friends and her own mother were counting on her right now. If she did nothing, or worse, if she failed, Sunnydale would remain under the sleeping spell forever, and those she loved most would never awake. Not an acceptable option.
Shored up by the mental picture of Joyce collapsed on her bathroom floor, Buffy took a deep breath and a firm grip on her ax, and approached the swinging door.
She paused momentarily as the sound of what had to be Cecil’s mother’s voice grated through the cracks.
“What did you say, young man?”
“I already washed them,” Cecil replied evasively.
“Really? You think I can’t smell the filth on them?”
The next sound Buffy heard was a muffled smack, smack, the sound of an open hand impacting a meaty rear end. A faint “Ow” from Cecil confirmed that he’d been on the receiving end. This was followed by water pouring into the kitchen sink and another yelp of pain from Snyder, suggesting that the water was scalding hot, and the whoosh of hands being scrubbed.
“Don’t forget to pry that filth from under your nails, young man,” the harsh nasal drone added.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Cecil whined.
“Don’t try. Do it.”
Buffy felt her ire rising a bit as the scrubbing continued. It was unsettling to hear pain in the voice of a child. Despite his appearance, Cecil was, at least in this place, powerless, and Buffy felt the unusual need to protect him.
Finally, the water was turned off. Buffy pulled back behind the wall and listened as someone entered the dining room and placed several heavy plates on the table. Her stomach started to rumble again at the smell. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a hot meal. The diet sodas she’d nursed throughout the day didn’t count as nourishment. She knew this wasn’t the time or the place to indulge in dinner, but she also knew that she was stronger on a full stomach.
The swinging door swished again, and Buffy risked another glance into the dining room. It was, again, empty, but there were now serving plates filled with steaming meat loaf, potatoes, and vegetables in the table’s center.
Buffy decided to risk it. She darted toward the table, retrieved a slice of the meat loaf, and took a quick bite.
In an instant, she understood why, despite appearances, this was a demon dimension. Though all the food looked and smelled amazing, it was the foulest thing Buffy had ever put in her mouth. Buffy didn’t honestly know what maggots tasted like, but she knew the taste she had imagined whenever she’d seen them crawling over rotting flesh. Suddenly, she needed desperately to vomit, but she took several deep breaths, calming herself, and finally, the wave of nausea passed.
As she collected herself in the entryway, Cecil emerged from the kitchen and took his place at the table. Though he didn’t take note of her, Buffy quickly darted across the hall and planted herself behind the corresponding archway that separated the living room from the entryway. From this vantage point she could face the dining room and, by poking her head around the short wall, easily see into the room, but she doubted that whoever or whatever eventually took the place at the head of the table could see her without almost completely turning around.
Her patience was rewarded a moment later as she caught her first glimpse of poor Cecil’s mother.
She was not at all what Buffy had imagined, but then, considering the meat loaf, she decided instantly that in this realm, appearances were bound to be deceiving.
Buffy searched her memory for the name of Snyder’s mother. She came up with nothing but P names—Patricia, Pamela, Penelope—but none of them sounded right. Finally she settled for Mrs. Snyder.
The woman was a vision of a sweet grandmother in pink flowers and lace. Her white hair was neatly trimme
d in a straight bob, and her face was etched with deep lines. The flesh of her neck sagged beneath a generous drooping chin, and her hands, which moved deftly about the table as she served herself and Cecil, were veined and covered with age spots. Only her voice betrayed the mettle beneath the deceptively sweet appearance.
Once both of them were served, Mrs. Snyder removed a crisp white apron from around her waist and disappeared briefly into the kitchen to discard it. When she returned, Buffy noted that her shoes were of the orthopedic variety, completing the picture of dowdy, plain, and neat with just a hint of Laura Ashley style.
“How was your day at school?” Mrs. Snyder asked politely as she and her son began to dig in to the meal she had placed before them.
Cecil took a generous bite of the meat loaf, and Buffy watched his face for any sign that he would find the dish as disgusting as she had. To her surprise, he ate like a man at his last meal. Her gorge rose as she saw him stuff one forkful after another into his mouth and chew and swallow with great satisfaction.
Buffy thought she’d begun to understand where the torture promised in this dimension might be coming from, but apart from Mrs. Snyder’s somewhat overbearing and demanding nature, and perhaps her quickness of temper, Cecil seemed quite happy to be under her care.
“It was great, Mom,” Cecil finally answered after a couple of bites.
“Close your mouth, Cecil, until you’ve swallowed your food. Haven’t I taught you better manners than that?”
Cecil did as he was told, then went on proudly, “I got a B-plus on my fractions quiz.”
“A B is a B, with or without the plus, young man,” Mrs. Snyder answered sharply. “And it certainly isn’t an A.”
Buffy saw young Cecil’s face fall a bit, but he went on gamely. “And I got an A-minus on today’s spelling quiz.”