THE XANDER YEARS, Vol. 1 Read online

  “PERFECT. YOU HAD TO MAKE THIS HARDER, DIDN’T YOU?”

  Cordy sounded annoyed, of all things.

  “Okay,” Xander said slowly. “Clearly the fact that I please you visually has got us off on the wrong foot here.”

  “Xander—” she started.

  He handed her the gift box.

  Cordelia took the box and opened it. “Xander, thank you.” She took out the necklace. “It’s beautiful.” Then she lowered the chain into the box and said, “I want to break up.”

  Xander somehow managed not to scream. “Okay, not quite the reaction I was looking for.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Cordy said, and for once in her life, she sounded sincere. “It’s just—who are we kidding? We don’t fit.”

  A small part of Xander saw this coming. A lifetime of rejection had prepared him for this moment.

  But not tonight. Of all nights, not tonight.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, trying and failing to keep his temper. “You know what’s a good day to break up with somebody? Any day besides Valentine’s Day! I mean, what, were you just running low on dramatic irony?”

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  A novelization by Keith R.A. DeCandido Based on the hit TV series created by Joss Whedon Based on the teleplays “Teacher’s Pet” by David Greenwalt, “Inca Mummy Girl” by Matt Kiene & Joe Reinkemeyer, and “Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered” by Marti Noxon

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TONIGHT, PART 1

  TEACHER’S PET

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  TONIGHT, PART 2

  INCA MUMMY GIRL

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  TONIGHT, PART 3

  BEWITCHED, BOTHERED, AND BEWILDERED

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  TONIGHT, PART 4

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This book is dedicated to Alexander LaVelle Harris, a hero to all us high-school geeks, and also to Joss Whedon, who gave him life, and to Nicholas Brendon, who gave him form and substance.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Primary thanks have to go to Buffy creator/executive producer Joss Whedon, whose fault this all is, as well as David Greenwalt and Bruce Seth Green (who wrote and directed “Teacher’s Pet”), Matt Kiene and Joe Reinkemeyer and Ellen S. Pressman (“Inca Mummy Girl”), and Marti Noxon and James A. Contner (“Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”; my one regret in this book is that I could not do justice in prose to the magnificent “Got the Love” scene in this episode, for which I most heartily commend Ms. Noxon and Mr. Conter).

  Huge thanks of course go to my editor, the magnificent Lisa Clancy, and her assistant, the equally magnificent Elizabeth Shiflett, for the opportunity to work on the book and for answering all my stupid and annoying questions. Huge thanks also to Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder, for opening several doors, and to Laura Anne Gilman, for being both best editor and best friend.

  Not-so-huge (but still pretty big) thanks go to the following: John C. Bunnell, Livia DeCandido, John S. Drew, Brandy Hauman, Orenthal V. Hawkins, Alexandra Elizabeth Honigsberg, David M. Honigsberg, Dori Koogler, Julianne Lee, Andrea K. Lipinski, Peter Liverakos, Dave Logsdon, James Macdonald, Ashley McConnell, Sue Phillips, Kimberley Rector, the gang on [email protected], and the entire Malibu Lunch Crowd.

  And finally the biggest thanks of them all go to my lovely and much more talented wife, Marina Frants, and to the Forebearance: the Mom (who also provided mucho editorial input), the Dad, John, and Helga.

  TONIGHT, PART 1

  The argument started when Cordelia saw what Xander was wearing.

  He had only just walked into the Bronze when Cordy started in on him. “My God, what is that outfit?”

  “It’s called ‘clothes.’ ”

  “No, I’m wearing clothes. You are wearing rags. Xander, do you even know what it means to accessorize?”

  Shaking his head and rolling his eyes at the same time, Xander replied, “Yeah. To accessorize. A verb deriving from the noun accessory. Loosely defined as, ‘Caring way more about what you’re wearing than is necessary for simple human interpersonal contact.’ ”

  Gesturing as if she were pleading with Xander to not jump off a high ledge, Cordelia said, “Xander, clothes are what define who you are to the world. They put out a message that says, ‘I’m cool’ or ‘I’m a jock’ or ‘I’m a computer geek’ or, in your case, ‘I’m a loser with no redeeming social value.’ ”

  It went downhill from there, at least up to the part where they made up by necking near the restrooms.

  Xander returned home and fell more than sat on his bed, not even bothering to clear a space for himself—he just collapsed onto the dirty laundry festooned on the sheets and stared at the ceiling. All in all, it had been a typical date: arguing for an hour, necking for an hour. Not exactly how I pictured dating, he thought. Certainly not how all those fantasy dates with Buffy went in my head.

  He turned toward the bedside table to stare at the photograph next to his clock radio. Willow’s mom had taken that picture of Buffy, Willow, and Xander sophomore year. Buffy’s hair was longer then—so, if it came to that, was Xander’s.

  Things were simpler then, he thought. She was the Slayer, we were the Slayerettes. She killed vampires and demons, and we helped out. Angel was just the
mysterious guy who showed up to give cryptic info and disappear, Cordelia was just her usual irritating self, there was no Kendra, no Oz, no Ms. Calendar, no Spike and Drusilla. Just the three of us and Giles against the bad guys. Those were the good times.

  Xander stared at the picture again.

  Yeah, right.

  The fact was, the only reason Xander saw them as the good times was because back then he could delude himself into thinking he had a chance with Buffy. He still remembered the first time he saw her, the new transfer student walking hesitantly up the stairs to the school grounds. He was so taken with her then that he crashed his skateboard into the stairway railing. Later, he gave her a charm bracelet that said YOURS, ALWAYS. He asked her to the prom. He helped her against the Master and his minions—he even staked one of his best friends after he’d been vamp’d.

  Jesse. He looked over to the bureau where another, older picture sat: Willow, Jesse, Xander, and Andrea. That was from one of their freshman-year gaming sessions, before Andrea moved away and Jesse got turned into a vampire.

  Who’da thunk it, huh, pal? he thought at the picture. Me and Cordelia. Never in a million years would you’ve believed it. Xander had known Cordelia since they were both five years old, and it had been hate at first sight. Cordy had said something mean to Willow—he didn’t even remember what—and Xander had retaliated in true five-year-old fashion by dumping a bowl of ice cream on her head. She cried, Xander got in trouble, and the tone for their relationship had been set.

  Except, of course, for the necking part. That took another twelve years to develop.

  The funny thing was, while Willow and Xander had gleefully formed the We Hate Cordelia Chase Fan Club—they even held semiregular meetings—Jesse had always had the hots for her, right up until the moment he died. And now Xander was dating her.

  Well, it could be worse, he thought. At least dating Cordelia isn’t an immediate threat to my life. My sanity maybe, but not my life.

  Shivering with a chill that had nothing to do with the typically warm Sunnydale night, he remembered a certain substitute biology teacher. . . .

  TEACHER’S PET

  MID-SOPHOMORE YEAR

  CHAPTER 1

  The vampire’s attack caught the kids in the Bronze completely off guard. Even Buffy, the Slayer of vampires, the Chosen One, wasn’t ready. She tried to fight the monster, but he was too much for her. A girl screamed as the vampire threw Buffy onto the Bronze’s red pool table. Then the undead creature got ready to pounce. Fear showed on the Slayer’s face. She was helpless. Would this be the end?

  Not if I could help it.

  “May I cut in?” I said as I grabbed the vampire from behind.

  The vampire tried to go for my throat, but I was ready for him. I slammed his head into the edge of the pool table, stood him up, then gave him a blow to the stomach and a sock to the jaw that sent the creature of the night careening across the room.

  I then went over to the pool table and helped Buffy up. She looked stunning in her low-cut red dress. “Are you all right?” I asked, staring into her deep blue eyes.

  Those eyes stared back at me with gratitude—and longing. “Thanks to you, ” she said breathlessly, taking my hand in hers. She looked down and said, “You hurt your hand.”

  I followed her gaze. I hadn’t even noticed the pain. After all, there was a job that needed doing. What did a small slicing-open of the skin matter to me?

  “Will you still be able to—?” Buffy started asking before her voice caught.

  I completed the question: “Finish my solo and then kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before?”

  She nodded, smitten. I smiled. Around me, all the girls in the Bronze seemed to melt. Some shot venomous looks at Buffy, as if to say, Why her? What did she do to deserve him?

  Nobody noticed that the vampire was stirring. I did, but pretended not to while I headed back to the stage and my abandoned guitar. As I passed by an overturned table, I yanked off one of its legs, whirled, and threw it unerringly at the now-upright vampire, all in one smooth motion. The makeshift stake found its target. The vampire fell to the ground and crumbled to dust.

  Buffy clasped her hands over her heart; tears started to form in her eyes. What can I say? I have that effect on women.

  I leaped back onto the stage, picked up my Fender guitar, and proceeded to whomp out one of the many killer solos in my extensive repertoire.

  In front of me, Buffy walked up to the base of the stage and said, “You’re drooling.”

  Huh?

  “Xander, you’ve got a little . . .” Buffy Summers said, indicating her chin.

  Xander blinked, then wiped at his chin. Sure enough, there had been drool.

  On the one hand, he was grateful to Buffy for alerting him to the drool thing before the lights went up in biology class. On the other hand, he really would rather have stayed in his fantasy until Dr. Gregory’s even-more-dull-than-one-could-possibly-imagine slideshow ended.

  Sitting at the black Formica lab table that he shared with Willow Rosenberg, he tried to figure out what the teacher was talking about.

  “. . . ancestors were here long before we were. Their progeny will be here long after we are gone.”

  Whose progeny? Xander thought, suddenly panicking. What is he talking about? He looked over at Willow, who was, of course, rapt, hanging on Dr. Gregory’s every word.

  Just as he was about to whisper a question to Willow, the teacher said, “The simple and ubiquitous ant.”

  Ah, good. Ants, Xander thought, relieved. I know ants. I’ve been stepping on them since I was a kid.

  Then Dr. Gregory shut the slide projector off and turned on the lights. Suddenly, Xander was grateful that Buffy had brought him back to earth when she did. Another minute, and his drool would have been on display for all the class to see.

  Dr. Michael Gregory stared out at his students through his distance glasses as he turned the lights on. As expected, about half the students looked like they had just been awakened from a sound sleep. He enjoyed doing slideshows, not for their educational value, but so he could see who was actually paying attention. Naturally, Rosenberg was completely alert. Just as naturally, her lab partner, Harris, wasn’t.

  To his disappointment, the pair at the table next to them, Summers and Mall, weren’t either.

  From Mall, he expected it. A football star, Blayne Mall had brains and decent grades, though not as good as they should have been. He saw sports as his life and school only as a necessary evil.

  But from Buffy Summers, the new transfer student, Dr. Gregory had been hoping for more.

  Walking down the middle aisle between the two rows of lab tables, he said, “Now, if you read the homework,” and he noticed several students squirming at that, “you should know the two ways that ants communicate. Ms. Summers?”

  Summers got the deer-in-headlights look that characterized the high school student who had no clue. “Ways that ants communicate . . .” she said, using the classic stall of repeating the question.

  Dr. Gregory nodded.

  “With other ants . . .” she added, extending the stall.

  “From the homework,” he repeated, “ants are communicating . . .”

  Summers was now making eye contact with a point just over his right shoulder. “Uhm, uh, touch—and, um—B.O.?” Obviously, Rosenberg was giving her hints: probably touching and smelling Harris.

  Laughter spread throughout the class. Next to her, Mall said, “Thank God someone finally found the courage to mention that.”

  Ignoring him, Dr. Gregory said, “That would be touch and smell, Ms. Summers. Is there anything else Ms. Rosenberg would like to tell you?” The teacher didn’t have to turn around to see Rosenberg’s patented guilty look.

  Then the bell rang. Before it even finished, the sound of stools scraping linoleum could be heard as students got up and prepared to bolt to their next class. “All right, chapters six through eight by tomorrow, people,” he called out over
the din, then turned back to Summers. “Can I see you for a moment?”

  Again, Summers got the deer-in-headlights look.

  As the other students filed out, Dr. Gregory noticed Mall calling out to one of the girls walking by in the hall. “Cheryl, wait up, doll.”

  “Doll”? the teacher thought. Haven’t heard anyone use that since I was in high school.

  Mall turned to Harris. “Isn’t she something? Do you know what a woman like that wants?” Before Harris had the chance to reply, Mall said, “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

  As the football player walked off with a grin on his face, Harris called out: “Something really cutting!” Then he turned to Rosenberg. “Sometimes I just go with the generic insult.”

  Nodding, Rosenberg said, “Why pay more for the brand name?”

  Dr. Gregory shook his head. If they devoted as much time to studying as they did to their witticisms, the whole class would be in the National Honor Society.

  After a few moments, the class was empty, except for Dr. Gregory—who had no class to teach this period—and Summers.

  As he gathered up the slides he needed to go through for his next class, he said to her, “I gather you had a few problems at your last school.”

  “Well, what teenager doesn’t?”

  “Cut school,” he said, checking a couple of the slides to make sure they were the right set, “get in fights, burn down the gymansium?” She seemed surprised that he knew all this, so he added, “Principal Flutie showed me your permanent record.”

  “Look, that fire,” she said, stammering, “I mean, there were major extenuating circumstances. Actually, it’s kind of funny.”

  He walked over to the closet to retrieve his reading glasses. “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do here—”

  “Destructo-girl, that’s me,” she said ruefully.