Rating: PG
Spoilers: "Normal Again"
Author's Notes: I had to write something after "Normal Again" because it was so amazing. This (with the help of my lj friends, especially Jewel) is what resulted. I tried to make it more than just a Buffy-finds-the-perfect-life-through-hardship fic . . . feedback, please?

"I just found out there's no such thing as the real world just a lie you've got to rise above."-John Mayer, "No Such Thing"

Part One

I thought they would let me go home. That was the point, to get home, to be safe and . . . and normal. Real. I thought that once I'd done it, once I'd . . . let go . . . they would let me go home.

"Soon," my mother promised every day, exactly the same. "They just need to make sure that you're going to be all right."

"That I'm not crazy anymore," I would say, bitterness creeping in despite myself. I always looked away from the pain in her eyes, only to find the window with its bars. They kept me locked up, like an animal. I got to leave for meals and twice a day to walk outside, if I was good. They watched me of course, walked with me, made me talk to them. They always made me talk to them, but I never knew what they wanted me to say.

I had just watched my best friends, my sister, die. And the very fact that I grieved for them, silently, missed them every moment, made me crazy.

I just wanted to go home.

And then, one day, the doctor walked into my room - my prison, my safe house - with my parents right behind, smiled at me and said, "I think you're ready. I think it's time to send you home." And it was in that moment I realized I had no idea where home was.

*

"Buffy." She looked up automatically, meeting her mother's hopeful look. "Come on, sweetie, we're here. We're home."

Buffy nodded, startled, turning to look out the window. She'd been distracted, not watching where they were going. The street outside was familiar, as was the driveway they turned into. With a shock, Buffy realized it was the same. The same house she'd grown up in. The same house she'd gone home to the night she slayed her first . . . no. No. The house she grew up in, better stick to that.

"We thought about moving," Joyce was saying. Hank opened the door and Buffy smiled at him, distracted, as she let him help her out of the car. "But we thought that if - when - you would want to come back, somewhere familiar. We kept your room just as it was."

"Oh." She had no idea what to say. It was like stepping into her past, her pre-teen years. She could just imagine herself laying on the front lawn in the sun, cucumber slices on her eyes, lathered from head to toe in sun tan oil, with Dawn running in the sprinkler . . . no. No. She shook her head and turned to the front door, letting her mother lead her in. They were always touching her now, as if afraid she would float away if they didn't anchor her. It was nice most of the time. Comforting. "Wow."

"Buffy?" Worry was beginning to seep through Joyce's carefully happy expression.

"I know this is hard," Hank said gently. "We're just going to take it a step at a time."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed. A step at a time. Literally. Hank had already opened the front door, was holding it open for them. Buffy felt like laughing suddenly at the absurdity of the situation. She felt like an invalid, as if she couldn't walk into her own house without help . . . Her. Buffy, the . . . Buffy, the. The what?

This was stupid. She wasn't an invalid, she wasn't a child and even if she was nothing else, she could do this. She could go home. Gently she released her mother's arm, smiled at her father and walked past him inside.

The living room was different, though not much. Some of the furniture was new, in different places. The TV and stereo were newer, there were pictures she didn't recognize. Buffy wandered through it, into the dining room, which was mostly the same. Same dishes. Same table. Buffy touched it wonderingly; they'd taken it to Sunnydale. She knew this table. She didn't know it.

The kitchen had been remodeled, there was new counter and new floor tiles. Buffy kept going, into the bathroom where she'd cried the first night she . . . no. No. She kept walking, vaguely aware that her parents were following behind, trailing like ghosts. She felt like the ghost; this was a past life, one she'd left far, far behind. But it was her life now. The other was . . . nothing.

Her father's office was different, and upstairs her parent's room, all different. The bathroom remodeled, the family room, that in Buffy's memories was Dawn's. And then there it was, the door to her room. "I changed the sheets," Joyce said behind her, a little awkwardly. "I kept everything clean. Your clothes . . . well, we got rid of most of them. We kept your favorites but . . ."

"You can get all new stuff," her father promised. "You can have my credit card."

"He's missed spoiling you," Joyce laughed. Buffy didn't turn to look at them, wondering vaguely how she'd kept up on style changes in her fantasy-world. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe '80s was back in. She shuddered a little at the thought, wrinkling her nose and opened the door to her room. To her past.

They said they hadn't changed anything, and they were telling the truth. Her room was exactly the way it had been before . . . before anything. Her corkboard was still covered with ticket stubs and pictures of her as Fiesta Princess, with her various girlfriends and boy worshippers. Posters of Tom Cruise, Clueless and Leonardo DiCaprio as Romeo adorned the walls. Mr. Gordo was on the bed and Buffy's eyes teared up when she saw him. Stupid, but there it was . . . Mr. Gordo was there, this was home. As much as it made her feel fifteen again, it was home. All the dolls, the teenybopper bands and magazines, mini-backpacks and fuzzy pens . . . it was all still there. Just the way she left it when she was fifteen and couldn't handle another day. Couldn't deal with her life, with the reality that she was no one, all alone . . .

No one. Buffy sat on the bed (twin-sized) and picked up the stuffed pig. A picture of her with her parents sat on the bedside table; the same picture she'd been looking at the day before she . . . Only she hadn't been looking at it then. She'd been imagining it, remembering it. But there it was, the real thing.

"I-I know it's all a bit juvenile," Joyce said from the doorway. Buffy looked over, finding her father with one arm around her mother's waist. God, she'd never thought she would see that again. She'd never thought she would see her again.

There was a lot of things she'd never thought . . .

"Of course you're older now, but we didn't know what you'd want to keep, so we-"

"It's fine," Buffy assured them, smiling. They smiled back, tentatively. She tightened her hold on Mr. Gordo. No Mr. Pointy here, she'd have to go back to stuffed animals. "I'll, uh . . . I'll just redecorate a little." The wallpaper, she decided, had to go. It was white and pink, flowered . . . She just wanted something simple. Maybe blue or . . . or cream. Not white. At the thought Buffy set down the stuffed pig and walked over to the window, throwing open the curtains and trying to open it. It was stuck and even though her mind thought she could force it, her arms didn't. Hank walked over and Buffy stepped aside, crossing her arms under her breasts as he tugged it open. "Haven't done this for a while," he smiled apologetically.

"It's okay. I just . . . I wanted to get some fresh air in." No bars on this window, except of her own making.

"Of course, sweetie." He bent and kissed her forehead and she leaned in, against his shoulder. It was strange . . . even though he'd lived in . . . well, she hadn't seen him in even longer than Joyce. It was strange to have him around, strange to be part of his family again. Strange to be part of any family, as the daughter, not the older one, the strong one. Strange to have people watching out for her.

In her fantasy world, her father had left and rarely visited, rarely called . . . why?

You're in love with misery, Spike's voice mocked her. Buffy stiffened, knowing it was only in her head. He wasn't even a person - he wasn't even a thing. She'd invented him, her own bane. So really she was mocking herself. Did that make it more or less true?

"Do you want some time to . . . I mean, what would you like to do?" Joyce asked.

"I . . . it'd be nice to be alone for a little bit. Just . . . get used to being back. I'll be down in a few minutes?"

Her parents exchanged glances and Buffy experienced again the surreal feeling of having to obey someone else's rules. Oh, she'd dealt with it at the institution, but that was so different. These were her parents . . . who still saw her as fifteen years old, and worse . . . unstable. Crazy.

What did her years of living on her own mean? They weren't even real. Yet Buffy knew how to cook (kind of), she'd held down a job, she'd graduated high school and lived on her own . . . and none of it, none of it was real. None of it meant anything.

"Okay, honey," Joyce agreed after a moment. "I'll be downstairs starting dinner if you need me."

"Okay," Buffy agreed, hesitating near the window. They exchanged another glance and then left, smiling at her. She closed the door behind them and turned to lean against it. Her room. And . . . not hers. A memory of her room, a memory of her life. She crossed the room and touched her phone - pink, sparkly, with numbers programmed in. Whose numbers? She could barely remember their names anymore, her old friends. Nicole and Jen and . . . Kimberly? Yeah, Kim. And there had been others, so many others . . . back when she was cute, and perfect and brainless.

What had gone wrong? What had made her . . . do what she did? The doctors had tried explaining it, how her mind was unable to handle the trauma of everyday life and therefore disassociated, retreating into a world of her own creation where she had power, strength, the ability to make some kind of difference.

Someone had died, she recalled. She didn't know who; she was pretty sure she hadn't even known them, really. But it was a shock. And then . . . and then she'd been unable to stop thinking about it, about death, about her life . . . how worthless it was, how little it would matter to anyone if she died. It was all blurry, because in her memory Merrick had come before all this . . . or after? According to the doctor it was a gradual thing. She'd probably begun imagining this other world, as a game, or she'd heard something about vampires and it had stuck in her mind. Only she became more and more immersed in it until she began believing it was true. When she told her parents they put her in the institution. That was the final straw; instead of making her better, she'd been unable to handle the strain of captivity and had retreated further into herself, living solely in the fantasy world.

She could explain it, talk about it like that, plot it out step by step. She could even believe it. But she couldn't forget, couldn't block out the memories or pretend they were fuzzy, as a fantasy should be, dreams instead of reality. They were reality, her reality. Only they weren't real.

So where to now? Buffy had only thought as far as getting home, but standing over her desk with it's happy face notepads and teenage romance novels, it was beginning to dawn on her just how much time she had lost. She was a twenty-one year old with the real life experience of a fifteen year old and the fantasy life of someone much older. She had no friends, no connections to anyone but her parents, a few doctors, nurses and some crazy people she ate dinner with for the last few months. All her friends were . . . well, if she had any desire to associate with the people she'd known before - which she didn't - they certainly wouldn't want anything to do with her. And everyone else was . . .

"Everyone else is not an 'everyone else,'" she told herself out loud, for emphasis. "Everyone else is . . ." Dead. Gone. Nonexistent.

Oh god she missed them so much . . . Buffy felt her control slipping as she pictured them again, bloody, screaming . . . She couldn't express how much she wanted to see Willow smile, to hear Xander's stupid jokes, to watch cartoons with Dawn . . . How much? Enough to give up . . . this? But it wasn't a choice. She couldn't go back. That life was over. They were gone and even . . . even if she could go back, she would never believe it. Never accept it.

She'd made her choice and she had to live with it. This time, she would live with reality, whatever that meant. No more giving up. No more hiding. There had to be . . . to be real people she could meet. Real people who would like her, would want to be friends if they didn't know what she'd done, just who she was.

(Who was she?)

Real men who would be better than the ones she'd created. Real men who would love her. Real men who wouldn't leave.

There had to be a life for her somewhere. A real life. There had to be. Everyone else found one, it couldn't be that hard. Normal people. Mundane people. People without special powers or destinies or . . . or anything.

Buffy remembered when what she wanted most in the world was to be free. If only she'd known then that she was. But of course, part of her had known, and the truth was she didn't want it. She'd only imagined she had. In reality, she'd wanted to be needed. To be strong. It had been more important to her than freedom.

To part of her, it was still more important. But she'd tasted strength and all it brought was pain. It was time to give freedom a try. She shook her head a little. It sounded so easy, like she could just switch back anytime she felt like it . . . this was it. She needed to stop thinking about it, stop regretting. This was her life, surreal as it was, strange and not-quite-right. But hers. This was all there was.

Her diary was still in the secret drawer in her desk; it was the only dusty thing in the room. She found it perversely satisfying that her parents hadn't found this, the doctors hadn't analyzed it. Blowing gently on the cover - pink and purple stars - Buffy opened it to the last entry.

She remembered writing it, though ones she remembered entering after were missing. This was the night before she told her parents, the night before they took her away. She described patrolling, fighting a vampire, sneaking out to see Pike - reality or imagination? she knew about the others, but not Pike - feeling so distant from everyone around her. She described her decision to tell her parents.

There were tear stains on the page, blurring the sparkling ink.

Fifteen. She'd only been fifteen.

Buffy shook her head, picked up one of the pens from her pen holder, unused for six years. She wrote the date on the next page and then wrote: Buffy the Vampire Slayer died on March 12, 2002. Buffy Summers survived. Gently, she closed the book and put it away. She'd buy a new one tomorrow, when she bought clothes and new pictures for her walls, a bedspread that wasn't flowered, a lamp that wasn't jeweled . . . She'd start a new one tomorrow.

*

I started a new diary. I shopped. I studied fashion magazines as if I cared what they said, and bought everything in colors - no white, as little black as possible. I redecorated my room. I lived. It was, in all, very much like I'd imagined it to be. The way people watched me was no different. The way I walked and talked and shopped and sneezed was no different. No, that's a lie. The way I walked was different; the way I ran was very, very different.

I tried to help an older woman carry her groceries to her car and she turned out to be stronger than I was.

I couldn't open jars. I couldn't walk a mile without getting tired. I couldn't move furniture. I couldn't help anyone. I couldn't even help myself.

I shopped and decorated and cooked and pretended that everything was fine. It became almost an art form; I managed to convince myself I was happy. Life was perfect. I had found peace, finally.

I almost managed to convince myself I was free.

*

"I want to do something," Buffy announced. Her parents looked up, startled - at each other, not at her. They were sitting at the table, eating dinner. Both her parents made it a point to always be home for dinner. Whether this was for her benefit or had never ended, Buffy had no idea. She couldn't bring herself to ask. She'd made this particular dinner; having nothing better to do, she'd been teaching herself to cook.

"What do you mean honey?" Hank asked.

"Something . . . out of the house. I'm just . . . I'm going a little wacko around the house all day." Glancing up, Buffy decided that wasn't the best way to put it. "I mean, not . . . wacko. You know what I mean."

"I think so," Joyce agreed. "Your father and I were talking about this . . . Well, what do you want to do?"

"I don't want to flip burgers ag - I don't want to flip burgers," Buffy assured them. "I guess . . . I'd like to finish college."

"Sweetie, you never started college," Joyce reminded her gently. Buffy stabbed her broccoli.

"Right, I know. I meant . . . start college. Go to college."

"That's really great Buffy," Hank said, reaching over to touch her arm. She looked up to smile at him. "We've been hoping that you'd want to begin your education again."

"There is a . . . a slight problem," Joyce put in, hesitantly. "But we can deal with that-"

"What?" Buffy asked, though she knew the next moment, even as her mother opened her mouth to say, "You never graduated from high school."

I did! she wanted to yell. She remembered it - prom, yearbooks, graduation, all of it. The SATs. They'd all been much more memorable than a normal senior year, she was sure. But not . . . not real. She nodded, returning her gaze to her plate.

"Well, there's . . . there's like an equivalency test, right? I don't have to go to night school, do I?"

"If you can pass the GED, you'll have the equivalent of a degree," her father agreed.

"Of course we'll help you study," Joyce assured her. "You'll do just fine." Of course she would. She'd already been to college. Buffy frowned slightly. She remembered learning things . . . how? Where had the knowledge come from? She filed the question away to ask at her next therapy session.

"Thanks Mom," she said. Her mother smiled brilliantly at her.

"Of course, I'll miss having you helping around the house. This fish is delicious Buffy."

"I know I speak for both of us," Hank added, "when I tell you how proud I am of you for wanting to do this. Your entire life is ahead of you Buffy. I'm so glad that you-" He cut off, getting choked up. Buffy felt her own eyes begin to fill with tears, though none spilled over. Her father and mother were both gazing intently at her, eyes shining with pride and joy and even though a small, cynical part of her heart whispered they were doing what the doctor had told them, the rest of her was just . . . happy. Safe. Loved. They loved her. They were real, these people had given her life and loved her for years, watched over her while she was sick and never, never given up on her. Now it was time to prove that they'd been right.

"Just wait till you try the dessert," Buffy told them.

*

I studied like never before; I must have taken fifteen practice tests. There were moments, studying sprawled across my - new, double-sized - bed when I would have given anything to have Willow or Giles there to drill me, but those moments passed, always. Eventually.

I passed too, with flying colors. My mother was so happy she forgot to be surprised. Dad took me to dinner at this incredibly posh restaurant, and to renew my learner's permit which had long since expired. I had to have it for a certain number of months before I could get my license; I didn't bother to tell them I'd never really learned how to drive. It hadn't been necessary in Sunnydale. Something my mind had decided because I didn't know how to drive? Probably.

I went to therapy twice a week, and then once as the months went by. I took the SATs (retook) and did almost as well. I applied to UCLA and USC and got into both. I decided for UCLA, and furthermore I decided to move into the dorms.

"Absolutely not," my mother said. "I don't want to tell you what to do, but you are not as grown-up as you think you are Buffy!"

"I'm twenty one! I'm a legal adult!"

"Buffy, when you turned eighteen we went to court and got power of attorney, to take care of you-"

"So what, you think I can't control myself?"

"No, no, it's not like that, I just don't want to subject you to more stress, Buffy. Stay here, with us. We just got you back, please-"

In the end I sent in a housing application without asking, and got my doctor to write a letter to the court vouching that I was capable of making my own decisions. My mother cried, my father yelled and then went silent, but I moved out seven months after I'd returned home.

"I'll still be here every day," I promised. "I just . . . I have to meet people. To start over. The best way to do that is to be part of campus life, to be right there. Otherwise it's too easy to just . . . come here and hide. And I can't do that forever."

But the moment I saw my roommate, I wished I hadn't tried to be so brave; she looked sweet, normal, energetic. I wanted to run. Instead I smiled and held out my hand.

*

"Oy, you're like . . . put together. I knew I should have planned my outfit better," Eve grinned, sarcasm creeping into her tone. Buffy grimaced, looking down at herself. She had been extra-careful about the coordination factor; her periwinkle blue skirt perfectly matched the tiny flowers on her black tank top, her small earrings and her toenails.

"I was nervous," she admitted. "I, uh . . ."

"Have never done this before?" Eve prompted. "Me neither." She flopped down on her bed, pulling up her loose-weave capri clad legs. Cocking her head, she seemed to be examining Buffy. Oy was right. Forcing herself to breathe, Buffy sat down on the edge of her bed. She could do this. She could make friends with real people. Hey, for all she knew this whole thing was inside her head too, there was no use worrying about it - oh god, that was a truly terrible, awful thought. Why had she thought about that? "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just . . . I took a couple years off, after high school and I'm . . . not quite ready to be back at school," Buffy . . . lied? Well, she was going to be doing a lot of that. She forced herself to look up and smile at the brunette on the other bed. Eve stared back without hesitation.

"I know that feeling. Not that I got time off but . . . not ready to hit the books again. I was kinda hoping to never hit the books again."

"Oh, it's better than-" Buffy cut herself off, but Eve was waiting for her to continue. "That is, I worked a couple jobs and . . . school's not so bad. It can be interesting, and it generally doesn't leave weird smells clinging to you. Though I guess that depends on the teacher."

"Or the other students," Eve reminded her grinning. "Or your roommate."

"There is that. Promise I won't make you stink."

"Better not."

They smiled at each other, in harmony for a moment.

"Buffy?" Buffy started, not expecting anyone to know her. Her mother poked a head in and she relaxed.

"Hi Mom." Joyce came in, a box tucked under one arm.

"Here's some of your loose stuff sweetie. Is this your roommate?"

"This is Eve," Buffy introduced them. "Eve, my mother Joyce." Even bounced off the bed and proffered her hand. Joyce took it, smiling her best, though she sent a distressed look at Buffy. She so obviously wanted to burst out with Be nice to my daughter! but Buffy sent her a warning look and she didn't say a word.

"My parents are around here somewhere. They just decided to wander around and see everything so they have plenty of things to complain about from now until they leave."

"Oh, are you from out of town?"

"Seattle."

"Welcome to LA," Joyce said warmly. "Well . . . I guess I'll leave you two to get to know each other." Buffy captured her mother's hand and squeezed slightly.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" she assured her. Joyce turned, her eyes searching her daughters'.

"Okay," she said carefully, nodding. One hand came up involuntarily, tucking a piece of Buffy's hair away. "Okay. Call me if you need anything."

"I will Mom," Buffy promised. Joyce nodded, big goodbye to Eve and left reluctantly. Buffy took a deep breath, clasping her hands and turning back to her new roommate. "She's a little . . . protective."

"You're lucky," Eve said with a small nod, "my parents are practically throwing me out. They're going to Mexico after this."

Buffy grinned. "I've been away from home for a while, and . . . well, when I came home my parents were hoping I would stay. A long time. They wanted me to live at home when I entered UCLA but . . . I wanted to try something new."

"So where were you?" Eve asked.

"Oh . . . here and there," Buffy replied, turning to unpack the new box her mother had brought. "I, uh, I traveled some and worked. It was pretty unexciting."

"If you say so." Buffy glanced over her shoulder to find Eve watching her with a slightly suspicious expression, but then she shrugged and began unpacking her own stuff.

"What classes are you taking?"

"Um . . . Psych 101 and this intro to poetry class I think. My counselor said I should take a science, but I'm hoping to avoid actual work so . . ."

"Your counselor actually saw you? I'm just guessing. But I was thinking of taking psych."

"You should, it's really interesting - I mean, I took psych at this summer school thing and it was really cool."

"So I bet you know a bunch of upperclassmen, huh? Got all the social ins? Lots of party invites?"

"Actually, I'm . . . I don't really know anyone here." Buffy carefully avoided turning. She thought she had her face under control but . . . she didn't want to take chances. "I kinda lost track of everyone after high school. Anyway, I don't think anyone I knew came here."

"Oh, well that makes two of us. My friends swore off LA, couldn't take the smog. Wimps." Buffy allowed herself a smile as she turned back to the girl.

"I do know where to have a good time though. Or at least . . . I used to."

"I'm all ears."

They found Eve's parents critiquing the floor lounge and big them goodbye. Then they were off, catching the public bus across town. Buffy remembered the last time she'd done this; she'd been determined to have a night of fun, though Merrick had warned against it - not really - and her parents had been livid. Still it was . . . a nice memory, and almost certainly real. Most of it.

The club was exactly where she recalled it. Not the most posh place, they had good music and mostly college-age students. Eve got her hand stamped; Buffy didn't have to. They melted into the crowd, stopping at the bar to pick up drinks. Buffy hadn't had alcohol since . . . since before. She ordered a mixed drink and clinked glasses with Eve's Coke.

"Twenty-one, huh? You did take a few years off."

"I figured I'd be more popular if I could buy beer for the dorm," Buffy grinned, stepping around the question.

"You and me girl, we're in for a wild ride."

"That we are," Buffy agreed, sipping her drink. The bitter taste slipped into her blood like fire, soothing even as it hurt. Definitely time to get nice and drunk. That's what a real college student did, wasn't it?

"So do you go out a lot? Go dancing?" Eve asked, wiggling a little in time to the music to demonstrate her meaning. It was loud enough, Buffy almost needed the hint.

"Yeah, I-" Buffy stopped, then shook her head. "No, actually. No, I . . . haven't danced in a really long time. I used to love it though."

"Well let's go then."

Buffy downed the rest of her drink in a gulp and followed the younger girl, the sudden rush of alcohol making her light-headed. Eve's dark eyes sparkled in the pulsing lights and as they joined the crush of bodies, Buffy's mind took her back - back and back, to the first time she danced at the Bronze, to grinding with Faith, walking away from Angel, crazy-dancing with Xander, playing with Dawn, fucking Spike while she watched all those people, dancing just as she was now . . . part of the world but not, removed, separate. Dancing inside her own mind.

She'd had, Buffy discovered, just enough alcohol to make her crazy - crazier - but not enough to make her forget.

"Want another drink?" Eve asked when Buffy pulled her back towards the bar.

"Not that kind," she murmured, slapping down money on the bar. "Tequila. Straight up." The bartender eyed him but she stared back without flinching and eventually he put down a glass and filled it.

"You are planning to have a good time, aren't you?" Eve asked.

"Bottoms up," Buffy said in reply and slammed the drink back. She made an awful face, both in response to the taste and the memory that came with it - sitting in Spike's crypt, trying not to be attracted to him . . . attracted to someone she made up. That was strange.

"Let's dance," she said. Eve was watching her with quirked brow, but she nodded anyway and off they went. Things were more of a blur, moving not quite the way they were supposed to, everything just a little off. Buffy considered another shot, but her roommate looked as if she were enjoying herself and she didn't want to interrupt. Eve wasn't at all color coordinated, Buffy noted blurrily, but it worked. She didn't seem to have any inhibitions, throwing herself into the music. Buffy followed suit, closing her eyes against visions, real or false, and just . . . dancing. She remembered herself later, sometime, laughing in a cab on the way back to the dorm. They were talking about how ridiculous the UCLA mascot, and all mascots, in general were and Buffy was . . . having a good time. She found herself confessing that she'd been a cheerleader and furthermore her high school mascot was eaten by-

"By . . . wild dogs," Buffy said, sobering up suddenly.

"You're kidding!" Eve exclaimed, not noticing.

"No . . . it was this little pig. Supposed to be a razorback boar but he was just this little thing and . . . wild dogs. It was really weird." Buffy was suddenly tired, very tired and pain gathered in her stomach, like a knot of evil she couldn't untie, couldn't cut through . . . Eve finally got that something was wrong.

"You okay?" she asked, yawning slightly. They were there. Buffy paid the taxi driver and climbed out before she attempted to answer.

"Yeah, I'm fine just . . . not loving the trip down memory lane. High school wasn't my funnest time."

"Funnest isn't a word," Eve pointed out, semi-sleepily. Buffy nodded, awkwardly linking arms with the girl she hoped would be her first friend. Her first real friend . . . ever, really. She didn't think the old ones qualified.

"You're right. Remind me not to try the tequila again."

"Don't worry, after tomorrow you won't forget."

"Oh, yeah. Darn."

"Hey, at least classes don't start until the day after."

"Remind me not to do this tomorrow night, 'kay?"

"What am I, your mother?"

"Nah . . ." Just a friend, Buffy thought desperately. She really needed a friend. She really needed . . . something. Everything.

After her roommate was deep in the sleep of the just, or the innocent or whatever she was, Buffy cried into her pillow and promised she would do better tomorrow.

Go to Part 2