by Nancy Holder
“Is the world coming to an end again?” Buffy asked.
“Not that I noticed.” Cordelia grabbed Buffy’s arm and hauled her toward the jewelry display. “Some of these things are very valuable, and I need you to stand guard until Deirdre comes back.”
“No can do.” Buffy was duty bound to save Cordelia from being hacked up, spindled, or mutilated, but she didn’t owe her any favors. “I’m working in shirts with Willow.”
“It’s just for a minute!” Cordelia insisted.
“But I’ve got—” As Buffy was about to turn, she noticed a dark speck on Cordelia’s front tooth. Fascinated, she hesitated. “—a few minutes to spare.”
“Oh, thank you,” Cordelia said, relieved. “Deirdre said she’d be right back. I just don’t want anyone to walk off with anything while I’m trying to convince Harmony that she isn’t turning into an old hag.”
“She’s sixteen.” Buffy couldn’t stop staring at the dark spot on Cordelia’s otherwise perfect smile.
“She’s sun-dried,” Cordelia countered, “just like a prune.”
“Uh-huh.” Buffy’s eyes widened slightly when she realized that the dental flaw wasn’t a lipstick smear or food wedged between Cordelia’s teeth. The gleaming white enamel was marred by decay! Then she noticed that Cordelia’s hair was beginning to frizz.
Buffy didn’t say a word as Cordelia ran out. Cordelia would scream a few seconds after she looked in the restroom mirror, as soon as the shock wore off.
Frowning, Buffy rubbed her palm where the whip had zapped her. Was it possible for braided leather to build up a static electrical charge? She might not have thought anything of the little jolt except for Cordelia’s cosmetic calamity and Harmony’s premature wrinkles. Apparently, neither girl had noticed any blemishes before they left home for school or they would have skipped.
“Well, I see you’re tending to business properly for a change, Ms. Summers.” Principal Snyder gave Buffy a nod of approval, then leaned to look in the glass cases. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.”
“This is Cordelia’s display, actually,” Buffy said. The principal’s nonhostile attitude was a bigger shock than the bullwhip zapper.
Snyder turned his head and smiled. “Do you like my hat?”
Is that a trick question? Buffy wondered, wishing Deirdre would hurry back and rescue her.
“It’s, uh . . .” Buffy couldn’t think and drew a blank.
“Nifty?” Snyder giggled softly.
“Totally,” Buffy agreed, feeling numb. The subtle sense of alarm that had nagged her since last night clanged in her head. Trying not to look as frantic as she felt, she glanced around.
Everyone was calm, and everything seemed normal. Most of the kids had finished setting up. With time to spare before the sale opened in ninety minutes, they stood in groups talking or wandered the aisles shopping. Willow sat in a chair by the tables of men’s clothing, bobbing her head to the strains of “Proud Mary,” the original recording by Creedence Clear water Revival. Buffy’s mom always got nostalgic when she heard songs by John Fogerty’s old group. The only oddity seemed to be Xander. He was at the music table playing records instead of helping Willow in men’s clothing.
“I’d like to see that pocket watch,” Snyder said, tapping on the glass.
Buffy’s head snapped back around. “I don’t have the keys, but Cordelia will be right back.”
“Okay, but I’ve got dibs.” Chuckling again, Snyder tipped his hat and bowed his head slightly. Buffy saw three round red marks on his bald pate before he replaced the hat and sauntered off.
Bites? A rash? Buffy made a note to ask Giles. The marks didn’t seem to be bothering Snyder, but they weren’t caused by common dandruff, either.
Deirdre looked irritated when she returned and found Buffy standing in for the leader of the popular pack. “Where’s Cordelia?”
“Restroom.” Buffy studied the girl closely. The cheerleader’s blunt-cut brown hair had a healthy shine and no split ends. Her complexion wasn’t pitted, pocked, or wrinkled. “Have you been with Cordelia and Harmony all morning?”
“Most of it.” Deirdre frowned. “Why?”
“No reason.” Buffy shrugged. Getting information from people who thought they were too good to talk to you was a challenge. “Do you really have false teeth?”
“What? No!” Deirdre bared her teeth and pulled on the front ones to prove it.
Buffy peered into the girl’s mouth. Not a smidgeon of decay. Deirdre was an insufferable snob, but she wasn’t suffering from sudden and inexplicable uglies.
Two imperatives vied for priority in Buffy’s mind when Deirdre took over guarding the display cases: Alert Giles that something was definitely wrong, and make sure Willow and Xander were okay. She had no idea if the maladies were mystical or medical, but since they didn’t seem to be affecting everyone, she chose friends first.
Sitting with a blue scarf heaped in her lap, Willow looked content and undamaged. Her auburn hair fell straight and limp to her shoulders, but it wasn’t dull or frizzy. When she smiled, her teeth gleamed white.
“Hey, Willow. Looks like you finally got all those shirts stacked.”
“Yeah, I did.” Willow glanced back at the neat piles. “Your skirt’s still here.”
Buffy had forgotten about the leather skirt.
“But Xander can’t find a hunting vest he stashed,” Willow added. “He thought I took it, but I didn’t.”
“I did,” Buffy confessed. “But I’m going to give it back—as soon as he admits that guys are just as eager to take advantage of a bargain as girls.”
“Good one,” Willow said with an impish grin. “I approve.”
“Yeah, but it’s not all that important right now,” Buffy said. “Our no-weirdness weekend may be a total washout. I’m not sure what’s happening, but some serious sleuthing is in order. I’ll get Xander and we’ll meet you in the library.”
“Okay.” Willow stood up, clutching the bunched-up blue scarf.
“Leave the scarf here, though. Principal Snyder is acting like a complete goof, but why risk getting caught with unpaid merchandise? Tell Giles I’ll be right there.” Confident Willow would do as she asked, Buffy left without waiting for a response.
The Creedence album was still playing, and Xander swayed to the music as he flipped through the cardboard record covers. He smiled when she rushed up. “Hey, Buffy. Got a request?”
“Isn’t this Devon’s job?” Buffy asked, giving him a quick once-over. He looked fine.
“Devon is nowhere to be seen,” Xander explained. “Oz went to make sure the seat covers he found fit his van. It’s in auto shop getting a tune-up or an oil change or something. Anyway, I told him I’d handle the DJ gig until he gets back.”
“We have to meet Willow in the library,” Buffy said. “Snyder’s acting like an adolescent on laughing gas, and Cordelia’s teeth are rotting.”
“Turning-black-and-falling-out rotting, or a-really-stinky-case-of-halitosis rotting?” Xander looked worried for a moment before he arched a dark eyebrow. “And why is this a problem?”
“Because—” Buffy looked past him. The camouflage vest she had so carefully hidden in a pile of sheepskin was lying on the CDs. “Where’d you get that?”
“Oz found it in his seat covers. I hid it last night, but someone moved—” Xander’s eyes narrowed when Buffy flinched. “You?”
“Yeah, Mr. Girls Can’t Resist a Bargain.” Buffy winced sheepishly. “Are you mad?”
“Not as mad as I would be if someone else had found it and bought it,” Xander said.
“Good. Now let’s go see Giles.”
“I can’t leave until Devon shows up or Oz gets back,” Xander said. “Some of these LPs are classics, and you’d be surprised how many people will risk going to jail to steal stuff they can’t use.”
“LPs?”
“Long-playing records,” Xander explained. “Forty-fives were the CD singles of their day.”
“Just don’t be too long,” Buffy cautioned. “We could be dealing with some kind of mutant flu bug or something.”
“I am so sorry I’m late!” Joyce hurried into the cafeteria carrying a box of donations from her gallery clients. “I had to wait for a delivery, and I think I caught every traffic light between the gallery and the school.”
“Don’t apologize. The sale doesn’t start for an hour. I’m just so glad you took the time to collect all these fabulous treasures.” Ms. Calendar took the box. “Is this everything?”
“No, I have two more boxes in the car,” Joyce said.
“Great! I’ll get Deirdre started unpacking this one, and then I’ll help you bring them inside.”
“Buffy said she’d”—Joyce’s sentence trailed off as the teacher stepped away—“be here to do it.”
While Ms. Calendar conferred with a tall cheerleader at the next table, Joyce surveyed the cafeteria. Teenagers waiting for the sale to start stood around tables piled with an impressive array of goods. A song by Blood, Sweat & Tears, one of Joyce’s all-time favorite groups, was playing on an old stereo. Xander mimed playing the drums and tapping his foot to the beat. Willow sat in a chair. From a distance it looked like the girl was holding a white stuffed animal. There was something sad about the toys people threw away, a sign that wonder and hope had been lost in the trials of adulthood. She still had a funny stuffed dog with a bee on its nose tucked away in an old trunk, a cherished memento that held the last vestiges of her youth. It was a silly notion, the idea of hanging on to the child she once was. She wished Buffy wasn’t so eager to grow up too fast.
More than that, Joyce wished her daughter would learn to keep her word. Buffy was not in the cafeteria, not where she was supposed to be or doing what she said she’d be doing—again. That was disappointing, but not the only thing that worried her. Buffy’s grades were barely passing, and her reputation as a troublemaker had followed her from Hemery. Being able to hold her own in a gang brawl was an excellent survival skill, but it wouldn’t get her into a decent college. It was becoming quite clear to Joyce that she might have to stop threatening to ground her headstrong offspring and actually do it.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Joyce reminded herself. She brought it up with Ms. Calendar as they left for the parking lot. “I thought Buffy was working the sale this morning.”
“She is. She just . . . left for a minute.”
The teacher sounded suspiciously like a person trying to cover for someone.
Joyce resented not being able to trust Buffy, but Buffy’s actions were to blame. As a good parent, she had no choice but to ask, “Was Buffy here last—”
“We already have a buyer for the cloisonné urn,” the teacher said, steering the conversation elsewhere. “But I’m really anxious to see the Jurojin ivory. The artist carved him standing with a stag, correct?”
“Yes, it’s a beautiful piece.” Joyce had been surprised and delighted that Mr. Haido had contributed something from his collection of Asian gods. Jurojin, the god of longevity, was one of seven lucky Chinese deities. The deer, another symbol of long life, was often included as his messenger.
“And Mayor Wilkins called to ask if the black jade paperweight comes with any documentation.”
“The Mayor wants it?” Joyce asked.
“Only if it’s an orb called ‘Endless Night,’” Ms. Calendar said.
Jade was symbolic of power, prestige, and immortality. This particular piece had an intriguing history, but Joyce was surprised the Mayor had expressed interest.
“His father lost a bidding war on the orb at an auction in LA back in the fifties,” Ms. Calendar explained.
“It’s the same piece,” Joyce confirmed. “The donor supplied the original sales slip and related paperwork.”
“Really?” Ms. Calendar looked impressed. “Why would anyone donate something that valuable to a student rummage sale?”
“Apparently the jade is so black that the donor felt like he was being drawn into infinity when he stared at it,” Joyce said. “And the orb has such an intense hypnotic effect that he couldn’t stop staring at it. So it’s been buried in a desk drawer for five decades. He said he won’t miss it.”
“Fascinating.” Ms. Calendar stood back while Joyce un-locked her car. “The Mayor will be so pleased. He’ll be here at noon.”
“Mayor Wilkins is coming to the school?” Joyce asked as she hauled a box out of the backseat.
“Just long enough for the Sunnydale Press to get a few pictures and quotes,” Ms. Calendar said. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet the woman who recovered his father’s lost treasure.”
“That would be nice.” Joyce lifted the second box and kicked the door closed. “Don’t drop that. Everything is packed in shredded paper, but jade can shatter.”
“No pressure there,” Ms. Calendar teased.
Joyce relaxed once they were back in the cafeteria and the boxes had been transferred into the faculty adviser’s custody. She was no longer responsible for the condition of the precious contents, and she had kept her promise to Buffy.
Who still isn’t back from wherever she went, Joyce noted. Perhaps taking her cues from Mr. Giles, Ms. Calendar was cutting Buffy a great deal of slack. Still, it seemed foolish to expect the worst if nobody else was troubled by Buffy’s absence.
Joyce had intended to go directly back to the gallery, but Mayor Richard Wilkins III was highly respected in Sunny-dale and a patron of the arts. He might appreciate a personal invitation to the opening of Joel Shavin’s show. The Mayor’s presence would be a boon to the gallery’s prestige. She could afford to wait.
An avid bargain hunter, Joyce began a casual walk through the rummage sale. Unusual, collectible, or valuable objects could often be found in thrift shops and garage sales because people didn’t know what they had.
As she moved up and down the aisles, Joyce’s keen eye flicked over the ordinary and mundane, searching for a junk-pile original. Her gaze was drawn to a pair of black lace evening gloves that stood out like a beacon on a stormy night. The gloves were in excellent condition and looked like a pair her grandmother used to wear to the theater. They also fit her hands perfectly.
Sold, Joyce thought, removing the gloves and taking them with her. As she rummaged through the odds and ends on the trinket tables, she softly sang along to “And When I Die,” another old Blood, Sweat & Tears hit that blared from the music table. “‘One child born in this world to carry on, to carry on.’”
“Hi, Ms. Summers!” Willow came up beside her. She carried the white stuffed animal wrapped in a blue knit neck scarf. “Did you find anything you just absolutely have to have?”
“Yes, actually.” Joyce held up the gloves and scratched an itchy spot on the back of her hand. “I see you’ve found yourself a must-have item too.”
Willow blinked, confused. “I did? What?”
“The white bear or whatever it is.” Joyce reached toward the toy.
Holding it closer, Willow lurched backward and bumped into the table. She snapped, eyes flashing. “He’s mine.”
“Yes, of course he is,” Joyce said, taken aback. Willow was a gentle soul and completely without malice toward anyone. Her hostility was unexpected, but not necessarily unwarranted.
“I don’t care what Principal Snyder says.” Willow spoke in a quiet, intense voice, her expression stony and determined. “Not letting us buy stuff we find before the sale starts is a stupid rule. Who cares where the money comes from, as long as we make enough so the marching band can compete? I’m not putting Cutie back, and that’s final.”
“Well, I agree. It’s a stupid rule.” Joyce smiled. “And I’m not putting my gloves back either.”
“Good, because . . . well, finders keepers and first come, first served.” Willow had a white-knuckled grip on the bundled plush toy, as though someone might try to snatch it away. “Buffy’s at the library.”
“What is it with you kids and the library?” Joyce asked, genuin
ely puzzled. “Does Mr. Giles do your homework?”
“Only if it’s about demon stuff. Gotta go.” As Willow spun around to leave, the clasp of a gold chain necklace caught on her sweater. The large gold sunburst with red and green rhinestones dangled from her back as she scurried down the aisle.
Joyce called out, but Willow didn’t stop. She collided with a dark-haired boy.
“Watch where you’re going, Michael!” Willow berated the stunned teenager. “You almost squashed Cutie.”
Michael didn’t apologize or defend himself. He moved by her and stopped to look through the kitchen wares on the next table.
Willow walked up the aisle at a more leisurely pace and went back to shirts. It was unsettling to see the girl so out of sorts, but Joyce chalked it up to typical teenage angst. Everyone had cranky days.
Paying more attention to the merchandise than where she was walking, Joyce almost ran into another early browser. “Excuse me, I wasn’t—”
Joyce whipped the black gloves behind her back when she recognized Principal Snyder. It was an instinctive reaction, even though his early shopping rule probably didn’t apply to contributors. However, she couldn’t contain a gasp of astonishment triggered by his startling appearance. He wore his suit jacket, but his blue shirt was draped over the table and his puny, hairless chest was bare.
“Do you like this tie or this one?” Snyder dropped a tie with diagonal blue-gray stripes and held up a muted red tie with tiny golden fleurs-de-lis.
“You took off your shirt.” Joyce didn’t like the short, scrawny man. He obviously loathed all teen agers and harbored a particularly belligerent dislike for Buffy. Even so, his bizarre behavior piqued her curiosity.
“It clashes with my hat. The band is red.” The man tilted his head and a drop of blood trickled down his ear. He held up both ties.
“Do you need a doctor?” Joyce asked, wondering if he had cracked under the stress of running Sunnydale High. She didn’t like to think about it, but the school had an alarming rate of student and faculty tragedies.
“No, I need a tie. The Mayor never mixes. He always matches.” He held up both choices. “Which one?”