The walk home felt lighter. My pocket was empty of the silver cross. Buffy had it now.
By the time I reached the porch, the swing creaked in the breeze, slow and steady, like it had been waiting for me. I stepped inside, expecting dust and clutter.
Instead, the house gleamed. The floors shone, the counters sparkled, and even the old windows caught the sunlight like polished glass. It didn't look like the same place we'd moved into—it looked staged, like someone had scrubbed away every trace of us.
Mom was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back. Her face was flushed, and her hands were busy, but her eyes were sharp when they landed on me.
"You were late for school," she said, her voice tight.
I forced a grin, trying to lighten her mood. "I arrived in one piece. That's worth something, right?"
Her expression didn't budge. "No jokes, Damien. Do you think that's how we start fresh here?"
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "It's my last time being late for school. I promise."
She exhaled, but her tone stayed clipped. "Miss French is coming for dinner, and I didn't have time to prepare food."
The name hit me like a stone. Miss French. Not just in the classroom—she was coming here.
Mom shoved a 100-dollar bill and a list into my hand. "I said we'll invite her, so we will. Go. There's a mall nearby. Buy dinner. Plates, forks, whatever we need."
I stared at the list in my hand, my chest tightening. "Dinner? Mom, it's too soon. We just moved in. Can't we… wait a little?"
Her eyes narrowed, her hair pinned back but fraying from the day's work. "No, Damien. She welcomed us yesterday. I gave my word. That's final."
I tried again, forcing a grin. "But Miss French… she's my teacher. Isn't it a little weird?"
Mom's expression didn't budge. "It's polite. It's neighborly. And I won't have you sulking or making excuses. and I don't have time to argue."
Her voice was sharp, but beneath it was exhaustion. She'd scrubbed the house until it gleamed, every corner polished, every trace of dust erased. She wanted this dinner to be perfect, and nothing I said was going to change her mind.
I sighed, slipping the list into my pocket. "Fine. Dinner run. Got it."
I grabbed my jacket, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Relief from giving Buffy the cross twisted into unease again. Those eyes in the hallway are about to sit across from me.
As I stepped back onto the porch, the swing creaked in the breeze, slow and steady. The list crinkled in my fist as I walked the street. I heard there was a mall nearby; I turned a corner.
The Sunnydale Mall loomed ahead, glass doors reflecting the late afternoon sky. I pushed through, and the hum of fluorescent lights swallowed me whole.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of popcorn and cleaning solution. Shoppers drifted past with bags swinging at their sides, their voices blending into a low, constant murmur.
I moved fast, weaving through the crowd, the list in my hand. The housewares section stretched out under harsh lights—rows of ceramic plates stacked like armor, steel forks, and spoons glinting sharp and certain.
I paused, staring at the plates. and I lifted it into the basket. The mall's hum followed me all the way to the checkout. My basket was heavy with ceramic plates.
From there, I cut through to the food court, where the smell of roasted chicken clung to the air. Behind the counter, boxes of rotisserie chickens sat there. I grabbed one box, the warmth seeping into my fingers.
The basket was heavy now—plates, forks, spoons, and the chicken. Dinner in one uneasy load.
At the register, the cashier scanned each item, the total climbing higher with every beep. My hand tightened around the crumpled 100-dollar bill in my pocket. When the number flashed on the screen, my stomach dropped. Too high.
"It's 150," the cashier said.
"I don't have—" fumbling for words when a voice cut in from beside me.
"Put it on my tab, Rayen" the woman said. Auburn hair framed her kind eyes, her tone firm but warm.
The cashier nodded.
"You don't have to—" I started.
She gave a small smile, brushing off my words. "You look new to town. Consider it a welcome to Sunnydale."
The register beeped, the plates slid into a bag, and the weight in my hands felt steadier than before. I glanced at her, trying to place the face, but nothing came. Just a stranger's kindness, unexpected and unsettling.
I stepped out of the mall with the bag swinging at my side, the clink of ceramic inside like armor. The woman walked ahead, her stride calm and purposeful, until she disappeared into the crowd.
I didn't know her name. But her words lingered: Welcome to Sunnydale.
The walk home felt heavier with the clink of ceramic and the warmth of the chicken pressing through the box.
I thought about the register, about standing there short on money, about a stranger stepping in to cover what I couldn't. Shame burned in my chest.
I need to find a job. That lady did me a favor, but I can't depend on the kindness of random people. I need money.
Inside, the house still gleamed—floors shining, counters polished, every trace of dust erased. Mom's eyes flicked to the bag in my hand, relief softening her face for just a moment.
"Good," she said briskly, taking the chicken and plates from me. "Now go get a shower. while I heat this and change. Be ready."
I nodded, slipping down the hall. The hot water washed away the mall's fluorescent hum, the stranger's words, and the weight of the errand—at least for a moment.
When I came back, damp hair combed back, Mom was already setting the table. Ceramic plates lined up neat and certain, steel forks and spoons gleaming under the kitchen light. The rotisserie chicken sat in the center, its scent filling the room, rich and heavy.
She adjusted the napkins and straightened the chairs, her movements sharp but purposeful. Then she sat, hands folded, eyes on the door.
We waited.
The swing outside creaked again, slow and steady, as if announcing the arrival that was about to break the silence. Miss French was coming.
The house gleamed, the table set, every detail polished into perfection. Ceramic plates lined up neat and certain, steel forks and spoons catching the kitchen light. The rotisserie chicken sat in the center, its scent heavy in the air.
Mom sat with her hands folded, eyes fixed on the door. I sat across from her, my own hands clenched in my lap. The swing outside creaked again, slow and steady, as if announcing what was about to come.
Then the light began to fade. Shadows stretched across the floorboards, the golden glow of afternoon slipping into the deep blue of evening. The house seemed quieter, heavier, as if holding its breath.
The knock came—three sharp raps against the door.
Mom rose instantly, her face smoothing into a practiced smile. She opened the door.
Miss French stood framed by the night, her silhouette sharp against the fading light. Her eyes caught mine, gleaming with a knowing sharpness that made the air tighten.
"Good evening," she said, her voice smooth.
Perfume drifted in with her, mingling with the roasted chicken, sweet and cloying.
"Welcome to our humble house," Mom said.
I stayed seated, the ceramic plate waiting in front of me, my pulse quickening. Relief from giving Buffy the cross twisted into dread again.
Miss French was here. And she was smiling.
Miss French stepped inside, her perfume mingling with the roasted chicken, sweet and cloying. Mom ushered her toward the table, her smile tight but polite.
"Please, sit," Mom said, gesturing to the chair across from me.
Miss French moved gracefully, her presence filling the room as though she had been expected all along. She sat, folding her hands neatly, her eyes flicking to me with that look again.
Mom busied herself with the plates, setting the chicken in the center, carving it with deliberate care. "I hope you don't mind something simple," she said, her voice clipped but steady.
Miss French's smile was smooth, almost too smooth. "No, I don't. It smells delightful."
Her gaze slid back to me. "And you—thank you for carrying it all home. You must be strong."
How did she? Was she stalking me? I shifted in my seat, the ceramic plate cool under my fingertips. "It wasn't much," I muttered, though the weight of the basket still lingered in my arms.
Mom shot me a look, sharp and warning. "Damien's always been helpful," she said quickly, smoothing the moment.
Miss French tilted her head, her smile widening just enough to show teeth. "Helpful is good. Reliable. That's what matters."
The chicken's scent filled the air, heavy and rich. Forks scraped against plates, the sound sharp in the silence. I chewed slowly, each bite tasting more like obligation than dinner.
Mom tried to keep the conversation light—asking about Sunnydale, about the school, and about neighbors—but Miss French's answers were clipped and precise, her eyes always drifting back to me.
"You'll do well here," she said softly, almost like a promise. "I can tell."
Her words settled over me like a shadow. I forced a grin, but it didn't reach my eyes.
The chicken was carved, the plates filled, and the conversation drifted in polite circles. Mom asked about Sunnydale, about the school, about neighbors. Miss French answered smoothly, her voice calm, her smile never faltering.
Time passed. Shadows deepened across the walls, the house holding its breath. Finally, Miss French set down her fork, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
"It was lovely," she said, her eyes flicking to Mom. "You've made me feel welcome."
Mom smiled, relief softening her face. "We're glad you came."
Miss French rose gracefully, her perfume trailing behind her. Mom moved to walk her to the door, but Miss French's gaze shifted, landing on me.
"Damien," she said, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Would you walk me home?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and certain. Mom's eyes widened. "Of course," she shot me a look.
I pushed back my chair, the ceramic plate clinking against the table. "Of course," I said, though the unease twisted deeper.
Miss French smiled, sharp and knowing. "Good boy."
The door opened, night air spilling in. The swing creaked again, slow and steady, as I stepped out beside her.
The door opened, night air spilling in. The swing creaked again, slow and steady, as I stepped out beside her.
The street was quiet, shadows stretching long under the streetlamps. Miss French walked with a calm, deliberate stride, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. I kept pace, the cool air biting at my skin, the unease twisting deeper with every step.
"You've settled in quickly," she said, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Your mother keeps a fine house."
I swallowed, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "She worked hard today."
Miss French's smile curved in the dark. "She wants everything perfect. That's good. Perfection matters."
We passed under a flickering lamp, the light stuttering across her face. For a moment, her eyes gleamed sharper than they should have, catching mine before I looked away.
"You're a good boy, Damien," she said softly. "Strong. Reliable. That's rare."
"I just… do what I can."
She tilted her head, studying me. "And that's enough. For now."
And though I didn't know where this walk would end, I knew one thing: I wasn't just escorting my teacher home. I was stepping into something I couldn't name, something waiting in the shadows.
We walked in silence, the night folding around us. Streetlamps buzzed faintly, their light stuttering across the pavement. Miss French's stride was calm and deliberate; her perfume was cloying in the cool air.
At last, we reached her doorstep. She turned, her smile smooth, almost too smooth.
"Come in," she said, her voice silk over steel.
My chest tightened. "No… I should get back."
Her smile didn't falter. Instead, her hand shot out, fingers curling around my shoulder. The grip was stronger than it should have been. I froze, my breath caught in my throat.
"Good boy," she whispered.
Before I could move, she leaned in. Her lips pressed against mine, cold and deliberate. A shock ran through me; I pulled away.
"What was that?" I managed, my voice weak, my face twisted in surprise.
"That's a thank you for walking me home," she murmured.
Suddenly my vision blurred, and I felt my body weaken. My knees gave up, and I dropped to the floor. The last vision I saw was that smile on her face as the darkness swallowed me.