Mr. Regis looked at him expectantly. “ And?”
Kevin pressed his lips together. Just how deep did the teacher want him to go? “Well . . . now Artiodactyla—animals like cattle and sheep—are considered to be the peak of evolution for herbivores because of their digestive system. Carnivora, such as lions and bears, are the epitome of carnivorous mammals.”
“Yeah,” someone hooted from the back of the room. “That’s like us humans. We rock.”
Kevin turned and automatically responded before Regis could get the words out. “Actually, humans are primates, not carnivores.”
He wasn’t sure who’d made the comment until a prim-looking girl at a desk in the next to the last row turned to the sloppily-dressed boy beside her and lifted her chin. “I always knew you were a monkey.” Howls of laughter resulted and Kevin faced the front of the room again, a corner of his mouth lifting despite the fact that he so desperately wanted to be somewhere, any where, else.
Regis shook his head ruefully. “Thank you, Mr. Sanderson.” He clapped his hands to regain the students’ attention. “Okay, put a lid on it so we can wrap this up.”
Kevin sat down, then felt a tap on his shoulder as Oz leaned over. “Nice save. Sanderson, one; Regis, zero.”
“I’m not trying to win anything,” Kevin said.
“Some of us maintain differently,” Oz said and sat back, clearly through with the conversation.
Kevin frowned. Maintain what? Status, perhaps. Oz might have a point—maybe Kevin had yapped more knowledgeably than he should have just to get Regis to leave him alone. But that was a potshot; some teachers might call on you less if they thought you knew your stuff, others would single you out and expect you to perform. He wanted to be singled out, but not because he knew a bunch of tedious science facts. The problem was that what was most important to him, paleontology, got precious little recognition in the halls of Sunnydale High. Heck, he didn’t even look different here. Back in Chicago, his blond ponytail and earring, skin that was consistently tanned from going on digs with the teams at the University of Chicago, and the tattoo of two battling Velociraptors that wrapped around his upper right arm made him special. He was cool with the guys, and the girls thought he was tall, blond, and hot; here in California everyone seemed to have a tan, long hair, and earrings, and tattoos were practically second nature.
In Chicago, he’d had stuff to do, even during the school year. Why, last October he’d run in the same marathon as his idol, Professor Paul Sereno. It had been a fund-raiser to help reconstruct the bones of a 130-million year old sauropod that Sereno had brought back from the Sahara Desert. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in Sunnydale that could compete on the awesome scale of something like that.
“Listen up, people,” Mr. Regis was saying. “ Tomorrow we’re going to have a guest speaker from the Museum of Natural History.” The bell rang and the class exploded with activity as students snatched up their books and backpacks and hightailed it. Kevin stood very still, listening intently. Regis raised his voice, trying to get the rest of the info into their brains before they escaped. “His name is Daniel Addison, and he’s from the museum’s Department of Paleontology, so come armed with questions about dinosaurs.”
Kevin grinned as he made his way out of the classroom, feeling something that might have been happiness for the first time in his so-far miserable term at Sunnydale High, a “short” week that seemed to have begun at the start of the Cretaceous about 144 million years ago.
Finally, something to look forward to besides the breezy palm trees and sunshine his mother constantly crowed about.
Chapter 3
WHERE WILL WE ALL BE TEN YEARS FROM NOW? Buffy sat up a little straighter and clutched her history book, wondering where that thought had come from—heavy stuff to just pop into your brain while sitting at a table on the Quad on a sun-filled afternoon. She’d have much preferred keeping her mental load on the light side; as the Slayer in Sunnydale—the Chosen One whose responsibility it was to fight the vampires and stop the spread of evil—she felt she had enough to deal with. More, in fact, than any self-respecting teenager deserved; when one added geometry, English lit, and the politics behind the Battle of Hastings, she was headed toward overload.
The question zinged through her thoughts again and she scowled. Why couldn’t she be thinking about makeup, shoes or clothes—like buying new ones—or which movie was coming out next week? She could definitely do a romance flick, or a good comedy. She certainly didn’t want to think about school, and the future— that wasn’t a happy thing to contemplate since Sunnydale was on the Hellmouth, a portal to the underworld that was apt to yark up all kinds of demonic nasties with zero notice. While Buffy knew that oh-so-annoying doorway had probably existed for hundreds, even thousands of years, sometimes she thought that the universe had created it just to make her miserable. It was hard not to take stuff like that personally when, through no fault of your own—no desire of your own—you were appointed Slayer status with all the accompanying benefits, minor perks like staking vampires, killing demons, and having the guy you love turn out to be almost two hundred and fifty years old. The Slayer’s litany—“ As long as there have been vampires, there has been the Slayer. One girl in all the world . . .” —was something that had a tendency to run through her mind with bummer-level regularity.
But she was what she was. As much as she struggled against it on the outside, sometimes to the point of unabashed rebellion, somewhere deep inside herself, where no one else could touch, Buffy knew that fact, knew about all of it. Her life, her future, what tomorrow and next week and next year would bring, and the ones after that—she was the Slayer and slay she would, for all those years to come.
Well . . . provided she lived to see them, of course.
Buffy didn’t know that much about previous Slayers, except that they were all dead, including Kendra, who’d been “called” only because of Buffy’s— temporary—death. Perhaps Buffy would be luckier than the others; after all, she had friends who had pitched in with the battle from practically the first day she’d walked into the halls of Sunnydale High School. It was kind of a give and take; they’d saved her a dozen times, she’d done the same for them times ten. Willow was her best friend and total confidant, a soul sister in whom she entrusted nearly everything she had to hide from everyone else. True, there’d been an exception or two along the way—Angel returning from Hell came immediately to mind—but Willow had done a secret dance or two of her own, and occasionally Buffy would have a feeling that there were things the redhead still wasn’t telling her. But that was all right; if the world was meant to know what Willow was all about, it would eventually come out. In the meantime, Willow had a perfectly matched boyfriend in Oz, a laid-back guitarist with a local band called Dingoes Ate My Baby and an interesting secret of his own.
Then there was Xander, who like Willow had grown up in Sunnydale. Despite his wackiness, Buffy had no doubt that she’d have been vamp meat if not for Willow and Xander, and she’d never forget that it was Xander who’d given her CPR and another chance at life after she’d drowned fighting an ancient vampire, The Master—which in turn had brought about the later appearance of Kendra. There was more to Xander than his obnoxious surface—free-spirited, sarcastic, always looking for the easy way out—and as much as Buffy felt like a traitor for thinking it, Xander really needed a little sit-up-and-take-notice from his parents.
The future. For some reason, the concept nagged at Buffy today, and she wished she could swat it away like the annoying little mind-gnat it was. Should she apply the question to her friends and family, the forecast wasn’t so hard to figure out. Willow and Oz were both almost frighteningly high on the smart-charts. Willow was sure to end up being something like a nuclear physicist or the female equivalent of Bill Gates, only nicer. Oz . . . well, he was more enigmatic. Smart and a musician, he might go either way; he and Willow had been the only two students during Career Week to be approached about high-tech c
omputer jobs, yet the laid-back Oz seemed to prefer the occasional gigs that he pulled with his band to anything with more whitecollar, high pressure possibilities.
Xander . . . well, he was just Xander, and hopefully he’d work stuff out. And as for Cordelia—who knew where she was headed? Beauty and no brains had pushed a lot of people up the road to stardom; Cordelia had both, with a load of self-confidence to boot.
But for the details of her own future, Buffy could use a little assistance from someone’s crystal ball. Because no matter where the others went, she was the only one who could fight the vampires.
Sure, her friends helped. But there were . . . fundamental differences between her and them, the most obvious of which was strength. Add to that agility, speed, the fact that she needed only a fraction of the sleep a normal teenager required, way too much courage, and a much keener sense of when danger was lurking around the corner, and it was obvious she was who she was— The Slayer—and her friends were . . .
Well, they were just her friends.
Buffy sighed and smoothed the fabric of her skirt, momentarily marveling that outwardly some things about herself seemed just as normal as anyone else. For instance, pretty soon it would be time to go in for her history period, and if the teacher threw a pop quiz at them about that whole Hastings thing, she was doomed. She could remember the year—1066—but she had to reluctantly admit that was probably because it sort of sounded like an IRS tax form. Her own career profile had come up “law enforcement,” and if that’s where she was headed, why did she need to know about the Duke of Normandy anyway?
“Hey.”
She looked up and smiled at Oz as he dropped onto the bench across the table from her. “Hi,” she said brightly, grateful for anything that would turn her mind away from the various forms of bleakdom spinning around in her head today. Well . . . okay, it might have been a stretch had it been Cordelia waltzing up to the table, but fate was smiling on her and Queen Cordy was nowhere to be seen. For now. “What’s shaking?”
“The earth, actually.” When she looked at him blankly, a corner of Oz’s mouth lifted. “Give or take, there are about twenty thousand earthquakes a year around the globe.”
“Ah.” Buffy looked down at her history book again. The Battle of Hastings, earthquakes around the world, Queen Cordelia. Not really high on her interest scale. “I was thinking more about local vibrations.”
Oz shrugged. “Not much. Devon and I have a meeting set up with someone about managing the band.”
Buffy’s eyes widened. “Not much? Oz, that’s great—have you told Willow?”
“There’s nothing to tell yet,” he said calmly.
She leaned forward, shoving her books out of the way. “Well, sure there is. Like who does he manage now? Will you get gigs in Los Angeles? And has he ever signed anyone to a major label?”
“It’s a ‘she’ and I don’t know,” Oz answered. “To the third power.”
Buffy sat back, disappointed. “Oh. So, when’s the big pow-wow?”
“Sometime Friday evening. We’re scheduled to play at the Bronze that night and she’s going to come by and talk to us during one of the breaks.” Oz’s gaze lifted to somewhere over Buffy’s shoulder and while his expression didn’t change, something in his eyes brightened, so Buffy wasn’t surprised to hear Willow’s voice.
“Hi, guys,” Willow said. Oz slid over so she could sit next to him. “Who’s coming by the Bronze?”
“A woman who might manage the band,” Oz explained.
Willow’s smile was dazzling, and Buffy had to grin. Her friend was wearing a scooped-neck jumper with horizontal red and purple stripes that should have totally clashed with Oz’s green bowling shirt. Despite the color extravaganza, the two somehow managed to complement each other perfectly. “Well, that’s excellent!” Willow exclaimed. “A breakthrough for Dingoes, a step toward fame and fortune—” She broke off and looked at Oz, suddenly uncertain. “It is, right? Good, I mean?”
He nodded sagely. “It could happen.”
Willow’s smile returned. “Great,” she said again. “And we’ll all be there.” She glanced at Buffy, who nodded. “To give you support. For morale and friendship. And . . . stuff.”
“Definitely,” Buffy added and picked up her books expectantly.
Before Oz could say anything else, the bell rang. It was as though someone had flipped a cosmic switch; students sprang to their feet and zipped in all directions. Oz and Willow were a little slower—maybe their smarts gave them more confidence—while the realization that her afternoon date with the Battle of Hastings was about to become a reality made Buffy want to seriously drag her feet.
“Come on, come on, come on!” Xander called from a few feet away. “We wouldn’t want to miss our afternoon classes!”
“And what makes you so eager to return to Learning Central?” Buffy asked as the three of them caught up.
“Brain fever,” said Oz.
“Au contraire,” Xander said with a lopsided grin. “A hunger for knowledge, the unquenchable desire for—”
He jumped as Cordelia passed him on the sidewalk, then reached over and snatched his notebook out of his hands. With a withering look at him, she read from the semi-mangled class schedule crammed into the front inside pocket. “‘Health and Human Services 1.02,’” she said, and rolled her eyes. “‘An in-depth examination of the female reproductive system.’”
Oz’s expression didn’t change. “Like I said.”
Buffy chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”
Xander managed to look offended. “Hey, I’m just trying to learn here. About important things that have an impact on my future happiness.”
“You are an absolute fool,” Cordelia said distastefully. “I can’t believe I ever let myself be seen with you in public.”
“I am the shadow that makes you shine brighter,” Xander said glibly.
“You’d make a mud puddle look good,” Cordy shot back.
“Doesn’t say much for you,” Willow observed.
Buffy elbowed Willow as Cordelia paused, scowling, and Xander looked surprised as well as perversely pleased. Oz, however, must have decided it was best to guide Willow to safety before Cordy could fully process the jab. “Later,” he said and smoothly turned Willow in another direction. “The exciting world of algorithms awaits.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Cordelia said. “She—”
“Gotta run,” Xander said happily. “Wouldn’t want to miss it when Ms. Tischler has to say those V-B-P words. It’s really funny when her face gets that particular shade of scarlet.”
He hightailed it, leaving Buffy to be the recipient of Cordelia’s reflections. Luckily, Cordy had already lost the thought that connected her to Willow’s insult. “V-B-P? What’s that?”
Buffy sighed and picked up her books. Even the Duke of Normandy was preferable to this; Cordelia was in the same class, but at least then she’d have to be quiet. “Think female–male anatomy. As in the basic parts.”
The dark-haired girl followed her, but only for the few steps it took to catch up and move slightly ahead of Buffy, who didn’t bother to protest. “Oh,” Cordelia said suddenly. “I get it. Men and women . . . body parts.” She shook her head then. “Xander can be such an idiot sometimes.”
Buffy just looked at Cordy and followed her to class. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter 4
“I’M OUT OF HERE, MOM!” KEVIN YELLED. HE SHOULDERED his backpack and headed for the door. He didn’t make it.
“Wait, please,” his mother said evenly from the dining room doorway. She regarded him with quiet brown eyes nearly identical to his own. “Your father and I would occasionally like to see our son before he leaves for school.”
Rats. Why couldn’t they have done this yesterday? Today was the day that guy, Daniel Addison, was scheduled to come in from the Department of Paleontology at the Natural History Museum, and his talk had been all Kevin was able to think about ever since Mr. R
egis had told the class about it. He wanted to get to the school early, see if he could get into the classroom and talk with Addison. If he could show this man that he knew the difference between a Dilophosaurus and a Deinonychus, maybe there would be a place for him at the museum, a step in so that he could start building something here. It would never come close to what he’d known in Chicago, of course, but—
“Earth to Kevin, come in please.” His father’s rasping voice made him realize that both of his parental units were now standing in front of him, regarding him patiently. Looking at them made him wince inside. His dad’s hair was thin and his skin seemed to just hang on a suddenly fragile frame; he looked old and tired, the emphysema really taking its toll. Standing next to him, Kevin’s mother, with her carefully coifed white hair and pleasantly plump physique, appeared almost obscenely healthy.
“What—oh, sorry.” Kevin glanced longingly at the door. “I just . . . really have to go. There’s a lot going on today.”
“At school?” Rebecca Sanderson looked first at her husband Bert, then at her son. “Things there are starting to pick up, right? You’re making friends?”
Kevin started to retort, then swallowed the harsh words before they could take form. What was the use? He could complain all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything—the move was done, the school transfer was effective, and this was where they lived now, period. Laying a guilt trip on his mom and dad would accomplish nothing but make them miserable, and then Kevin would feel guilty for doing that. His mom . . . well, she just wanted everyone in her life to be happy and, as she had always done, she tried to prioritize, deal with the most urgent situation first. And there was no denying that his dad’s lungs, ravaged by too many years of smoking cigarettes, just couldn’t take the summer humidity and the frigid winters of Chicago’s climate anymore.
“Yeah” was what came out of Kevin’s mouth. “I’m, uh, getting to know a few people.” His dad’s perpetually haggard expression seemed to lighten, and as furious as he still was over the cross-country relocation, the sight made Kevin feel a little better. He added, “In fact, I’m going to talk with someone from the Paleontology Department at the Museum of Natural History today.” He shuffled a step or two closer to the door. “That’s why I’m kind of in a hurry. To get to school.”
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