by Ray Garton
She’d seen Buffy a few times throughout the day, always in a hurry to somewhere, always preoccupied, late for class three times. That morning, Willow had assumed Buffy was probably upset, for she had heard that there were more cattle killings last night; she knew both Buffy and Giles were worried about it because it was unfamiliar to them, and therefore posed a greater danger if it was something supernatural. But as the day wore on, Willow gave up on that theory as her insides slowly clenched, first with the emotional pain she felt, then with anger. Buffy was just avoiding her, that was all, and acting the way she did — preoccupied and busy — just made it easier.
Willow was alone in the hall, outside the closed doors of classes in session. She’d just come from her American literature class after finishing a quiz. The teacher, Mrs. Youngblood, had decided a quiz would serve as a good studying tool for next week’s exams. “If you find that you are unable to answer these questions with some ease,” Mrs. Youngblood had said, “then you should increase the intensity of your studying between now and next Tuesday.” That was about the time Buffy arrived, and everything had to be explained to her. Although Willow tried, Buffy made no eye contact with her, just went straight to work on the printed-out quiz. Willow was pleased to see that the questions on the quiz posed no problem at all for her, and she finished long before everyone else. After looking over the paper, Mrs. Youngblood told her, in a whisper, that she could go.
In the hall, a door opened and Willow saw someone carrying a rolled-up poster. It was the new guidance counselor, Promila Daruwalla. Well, she wasn’t exactly new, because she’d been doing part-time work in the school’s main office for over a year. But that job had kept her pretty much invisible to the students. When the previous guidance counselor, Mr. Platt, was killed last month, Ms. Daruwalla filled in for him temporarily, until it was learned that she was fully qualified for the job, at which time she went from temporary to permanent within an afternoon.
Willow had never spoken with Mr. Platt, but Buffy had been very fond of him. Willow hadn’t met Ms. Daruwalla yet, either, and neither had anyone she knew. But she was well aware of the guidance counselor’s popularity.
Promila Daruwalla was originally from India, and she was stunningly beautiful. She was tall — five-nine, maybe taller — and looked and moved like a model, as if maybe she’d spent some time modeling in her past. Her curves and long legs, combined with skin the color of chocolate milk, thick shiny black hair that fell nearly to her waist, and a perfectly sculpted face, sent most of the male students of Sunnydale High facedown on the tile whenever she walked by. Wherever she went on the high school’s campus, Ms. Daruwalla left behind her a wake of whispered comments that ranged from affectionately admiring to shockingly obscene.
The poster Ms. Daruwalla was tacking to the cork-board just outside her office showed simply a spilled pack of cigarettes. Above was the word Think. At the bottom: Don’t Smoke.
As Willow walked by, Ms. Daruwalla’s back was to her.
“You certainly look down,” Ms. Daruwalla said a moment after Willow passed her.
Willow stopped and turned to the woman. “I’m sorry?”
“You look like someone just stole your puppy dog.” The couselor’s smile was bright and disarming. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, uh, well, um . . .” Willow shrugged and smiled back, knowing her smile was a pale imitation of the guidance counselor’s. “Everything’s fine,” she said, nodding. Her smile fell away and her head stopped abruptly and she added, “No, um, everything’s not fine, but . . . I’ll be okay.” She smiled again, but with less conviction than before.
“If you’re not in a hurry to get somewhere, would you like to talk about it?” Her accent was slight, but gave her voice a musical quality. When Willow hesitated, Ms. Daruwalla said, “I’m free at the moment. You have nothing urgent, do you? We can have tea. I just now brewed a fresh pot.”
It was tempting. Willow had been craving someone to talk to. But if she told Ms. Daruwalla what was bothering her, she would sound exactly the way she did not want to sound: whiney and self-pitying. Of course, she didn’t have to talk about that if she didn’t want to.
“Okay,” Willow said.
The office was bright with sunshine that came in through the open blinds over the window behind a large desk. It was a very neat office, with a touch of Ms. Daruwalla’s native Indian culture in the decor. A large peacock-blue silk scarf was stretched over the surface of a sideboard to the right of the desk; beautiful gold designs that looked hand-painted curled and swirled over the scarf. On top of the scarf were some small statues, and above, on the wall, were two watercolor paintings, one of a palace, and one of some elephants wearing elaborately decorated saddles.
“Have a seat,” Ms. Daruwalla said.
Willow seated herself in a black, vinyl-upholstered chair in front of the desk as Ms. Daruwalla got two delicate-looking teacups from a cupboard, then took her seat behind the desk. There was a Mrs. Tea on one corner of the desk and the pot was full. She poured them each a cup and Willow took a sip. It was strong, but delicious.
“What has you feeling so down?” Ms. Daruwalla asked.
“Oh, well . . . lots of things, really. Nothing in particular.”
“You’ll pardon me, but I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Willow.”
“Ah, Willow Rosenberg,” Ms. Daruwalla said, her eyes brightening. “I’ve heard of you.”
Willow’s eyes widened. “You . . . you have? What, um, have you heard?”
“I have heard that you are an exceptional student. You are spoken of very highly.”
Relaxing a little, Willow said, “Oh. Well, that’s nice.”
“Of course, that sort of thing can make it difficult for people.”
A frown grew slowly on Willow’s brow. “What do you mean?”
“Once you become known as an exceptional student who always does well, it’s sometimes difficult for people to see you as anything else. It looks to them like your good grades come easily, because they usually fail to think of the work you put into getting them. This can lead them to think that everything comes easily to you, so they cease to see you as a person who has the same doubts and fears as they. But perhaps I am being presumptuous.”
By then, Willow’s frown was gone and her mouth and eyes were open wide. “No, no, Ms. Daruwalla, you aren’t!”
“Oh, Willow, please . . . call me Mila.”
“Mila?”
“Yes, it’s short for Promila. I know Principal Snyder thinks that all students should address their elders as Mr. or Mrs. or Ms., but I prefer to be called Mila. Otherwise, I get the feeling people are confusing me with my mother.” She leaned forward and folded her arms on the desktop. “So, I’ll call you Willow, and you call me Mila.”
Willow felt her grin getting out of hand, as if the corners of her mouth might split open up to her cheekbones. “Sure . . . Mila.”
“So, you were saying?”
“Oh, yeah, I was saying that you’re right. Sometimes people do forget those things. About me, I mean. Like, that I’ve got the same doubts . . . and fears . . .” Suddenly, she didn’t want to talk about herself, and especially not about her problems. She wanted to get to know Mila more, because the way Willow saw it, Mila was the first real human being to get a job at Sunnydale High School since Giles had been hired. “So, how do you like being a guidance counselor?”
Mila laughed. “I like it. I enjoy working with students. It is so easy for the faculty — any faculty at any school, really — to forget that they are not the only people on the campus. That students are people as well, not just another part of their job, like chalk and erasers, and grading papers.”
Willow was surprised to hear herself release a burst of happy laughter. “Are you for real? I mean, I feel like I’m suddenly playing a bit part in Must-See TV, or something, because real faculty people, I mean, they don’t talk like that!”
Mila laughed again. “I’m just tell
ing you how I feel.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If word gets out, I have a feeling I won’t be holding this position for long, so enjoy it while you can.”
They both laughed.
“But Willow, I’ve not yet heard about you. You’re smiling now, and that’s good, but out in the hall, you looked so down. So unhappy. Why?”
Willow talked for a while, taking the lead from Mila about everyone thinking that someone who gets such good grades couldn’t possibly have the same doubts and fears they felt. Willow told her nothing of her real problems. If she told Mila anything about them, it might lead to further questions about the true Sunnydale. But even though she didn’t bring up her feelings of loneliness and neglect or the inexplicable coldness between herself and her best friend, it felt good just to talk with Mila. Finally, after going on about herself for several minutes, she decided it was time to shift the conversation to something else.
“Those are beautiful,” Willow said, gesturing to the statues on the sideboard. “What are they?”
“Ah, you mean my brother’s work?”
“Your brother?”
“Yes, he is a sculptor. Come, I’ll show you.”
They went to the sideboard together and Mila picked up one of the statues. “This is Vishnu, the highest of the Hindu gods.” She ran her fingertips over one of the statues’ four intricately carved hands. Each hand held something: a shell, a ring or hoop of some kind, a club, and a lotus.
Willow touched the smooth, blue stone figure. “Your brother is very talented,” she said.
“And quite popular in India. He was a cab driver for six years and did these in his spare time. Then he met a gallery owner through a friend, and suddenly, he’s a sought-after sculptor, selling his pieces for exorbitant prices. Now he does it full time, and he’s very happy. I’m very lucky, of course, because he makes something for my birthday every year. He has since he was a boy.” She put the statue of Vishnu down and picked up another. “This is Rama, one of the avatars of Vishnu.”
“Avatar?” Willow asked. “Sounds like a new car. The Chevy Avatar. The new Avatar, from Volvo.”
Mila laughed. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? But it’s not. You see, Hindu gods often appear in many different incarnations, or avatars. Rama is one of the many incarnations of Vishnu, a very heroic god who saved Sita, his wife and the daughter of King Janaka, from the powerful demon Ravana.”
“Sounds like the Hindu religion has a big cast.”
“An enormous cast.”
Willow liked the statue of Rama even more than the first, partly because it looked like a normal man, slender, with muscular arms, standing with both fists in the air, eyes turned upward, victorious. He stood in a very intricately carved archway on a round, flat base.
Next on the sideboard were four elephants, a large one leading three small ones.
“Elephants are sacred in the Hindu religion,” Mila said, “so they are the subject of a great deal of our art.”
“Did your brother paint the pictures, too?”
“No. He tried painting for a while, but he was really quite dreadful. Everyone advised him to stick with sculpting.”
The bell rang, echoing in the hall outside the office.
Mila glanced at her watch and said, “I’m afraid I have an appointment now, Willow. I hope you feel better than you did earlier.”
“Oh, I do, Mila. Thanks for talking. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome in my office anytime. I hope you won’t hesitate to come see me again soon.”
Out in the hall, Willow felt much better than she had before her visit with Mila. Of course, that might have been due, in part, to the busy hallway. It was noisy and crowded and people were hurrying in both directions. With all those people and all that activity and noise, it was easier than usual to put aside feelings of loneliness. But that wasn’t the reason. The time she’d spent with Mila had made her feel better about herself.
Promila Daruwalla was a fascinating woman. Sure, it was her job to talk with students, but she didn’t have to invite Willow into her office and serve her tea and spend nearly half an hour talking with her. That made Willow think that maybe the problem she was having with her friends — especially Buffy — was not her problem, that maybe there was nothing wrong with her after all.
She stepped into the busy foot traffic in the hall and headed for her next class. She was almost able to dismiss her worries about her relationships with her friends.
Almost. Not quite. She was still bothered by the coldness in Buffy’s eyes whenever she looked at her friend.
After school that day, Buffy headed straight home. Normally, she went to the library to check in with Giles and hang out with the others. But not today. If Giles had come up with something about the cattle-eating whatever-it-was, he would track her down and let her know. As for the others . . . she just wasn’t in the mood for hanging out.
And Willow would probably be there.
Buffy looked up at the sky as she went down the sidewalk. There were still patches of blue, but the dark clouds were moving back in for the night. They complemented Buffy’s mood much better than the blue sky and bright sunshine.
She didn’t understand her feelings about Willow. They didn’t make sense. Maybe it had nothing to do with Willow at all. Maybe it was just the pressure of too much slayage in too short a time, and from worrying about exams because she wasn’t prepared for them. Normally, she would go to Willow for help with that, but . . .
“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered. Her words were buried by the sound of a lawnmower being pushed by a man to her left. He smiled and waved at her; she waved back and smiled as best she could.
When Buffy got home, she saw an unfamiliar woman standing on the porch, talking to her mother, who stood in the open doorway. Her mother did not look happy. The woman was wearing a plain green housedress, no stockings, and sneakers on her feet. She was rather dumpy looking, overweight and sloppy, even lumpy, somewhere in her late forties, early fifties, with mousy brown hair shot with gray that reached just past her shoulder blades, frizzy and unbrushed, knotted in places.
“No, you don’t seem to understand,” Joyce said, obviously frustrated but trying hard to remain civil. “We have decided we do not want —” She stopped and smiled as Buffy approached.
“Excuse me,” Buffy said.
The woman glanced at Buffy and stepped aside so she could pass.
“This is my daughter, Buffy,” Joyce said, putting an arm across Buffy’s shoulders.
The woman’s face matched her body: round and lumpy. Her pasty, thick-fingered hands clutched the handle of her handbag in front of her so tightly that the skin over her knuckles had become even whiter. Her lips were paper-thin and her eyes were squinty. She had a faint mustache, and a mole on her chin that was small but vivid against her doughy skin. The mole, however, did not stand out as much as the bruise around her right eye.
She looked at Buffy and attempted a smile, but it came across as nothing more than a prolonged twitching of her lips. “Nice to meet you,” she said distractedly. She sounded as if she had a cold.
“By the way, Miss Lovecraft,” Joyce said, frowning, “what happened to your eye?”
Lovecraft? Buffy thought. That sounds familiar.
“Oh, that, uh . . .” She reached up and touched her fingertips to her cheek, just below the bruise. “It’s, um . . . nothing, just a-a-a little . . . accident.” She looked up at Joyce pleadingly and her voice trembled when she spoke. “Mrs. Summers, I-I . . . I can’t tell you how very important this is to me.”
Joyce said, “As I was saying, we —”
“Ten days, a week, that’s all I ask,” Miss Lovecraft continued. “You wouldn’t even have to display them prominently, really, if you could just —”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lovecraft, but we’ve decided we don’t want to exhibit the collection.”
“Who doesn’t want to?” asked Miss Lovecraft
, sounding almost frantic. “I-is there someone else I should talk to?”
“No. We all decided. And that’s our final answer. Okay?”
The woman said nothing for a moment.
“Okay?” Joyce said. “Now, I have to go, so you have a good day.”
Joyce closed the front door.
As they headed into the kitchen, Buffy asked, “And that was . . .?”
“Oh, that was the crazy woman who wants us to exhibit her collection,” Joyce replied, flopping into a chair at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. “I don’t even know how she found out where I live. She followed me, for all I know.”
“Maybe she is crazy,” Buffy said, getting a diet soda from the refrigerator. She sat down at the table across from her mother.
“Oh, yes, I’m starting to think she is,” Joyce said. “Before, I was trying to be polite. But now . . . I’m really starting to think she may be a nut. She’s so wide-eyed and desperate about getting that stuff in a gallery. I can’t imagine any gallery taking it.” She sipped her coffee.
“What’s her name? Lovecraft?”
“Yes. Phyllis Lovecraft.”
“Lovecraft. That sounds familiar.” Buffy frowned, trying to place the name in her memory.
“You’re probably thinking of the writer.”
“No, not the writer.” Where had she heard the name before? She couldn’t remember . . . but it seemed to have something to do with Giles. Maybe he’d mentioned the name to her at some point. It felt important to her somehow . . . but she didn’t know why. She made a mental note to ask Giles about it the next time she saw him.
“You’re home a little early, aren’t you?” Joyce asked.
