Spike extinguished his cigarette on the ground beside the principal’s door. He straightened his duster a little and slicked back his bleached hair a little more with his hands. Time to play with the principal. He opened the door to the office.
Mr. Wilkins was playing golf with a coffee mug as the hole. He had, rather ingeniously, used the binders and folders and all that office crap to make a little course. The office was rather plain; manila walls, filing cabinets, and a desk with a big red chair. Wilkins was just about to swing when he glanced up at Spike, a smile on his lips.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite student,” Principal Wilkins chirped happily, long forgetting the shot. “What brings you to my humble abode?” He gestured in a greeting manner with his hands, golf club still in one.
“Uh...” Spike didn’t know exactly what had gotten him here. He decided a broad generalization would be best. “Got kicked out of English.”
“Oh,” Principal Wilkins frowned and put the golf club down. “Take a seat.”
He gestured for the chair in front of his desk as student and disciplinarian assumed the position.
Wilkins put his folded hands on the desk. With his suit and collar, one would think the guy was uncomfortably hot, but he wasn’t sweating. “This is very serious, Spike.”
Spike grinned when the principal referred to him by his nickname.
He nodded and concurred. “Yep, I know. And it won’ happen again.”
Wilkins stared at him for a few seconds with that authoritative look. It looked like he was going to suspend Spike. Crash the hand of justice right down on him. Punish him for his evil sins. Exile him to the insane asylum otherwise known as detention. At the very least verbally denunciate him.
But Wilkins quickly burst out in laughter. “What did you do, anyway?” he managed between chuckles.
“Oh, it’s English, new teacher, you know,” Spike replied as he relaxed a little in his chair. “Teacher’s a little skittish to fire.”
Wilkins snickered. “Just don’t burn the school down. You know as well as I do that I can’t possibly expel you. Your father owns too much of this town as it is.”
Spike looked down a little. Yeah, I know that. Daddy’s here to bail me out, even when he’s not here.
“And besides, we’re friends!” Wilkins shot up and threw his arms in the air. “Tee time on Saturday still?”
Spike grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it, ‘mate.”
“Now get back to class,” Wilkins shooed him with his hands playfully. “Or just walk around the halls the whole period like I know all you kids do.”
Spike happily exited the room and spent the remainder of the period chain-smoking in the parking lot. He knew that everyone in his English class, including his teacher, were probably spying on him, but he didn’t give a damn. The Crucible my ass. A third grader could read that!
The loud bell echoed out to the parking lot and Spike knew it was time for second period. Calculus BC he thought with a smile as he threw his cigarette on Riley’s windshield. At least I’ll learn something in there. Spike had already decided that he wouldn’t be a badboy second period; all the kids in the advanced classes were smart and kind. And he heard the teacher was pretty cool, with a friendly southern accent to boot.
Spike traveled to the class, content with how calm, peaceful, and instructive second period would be. He wasn’t going to be in a room full of enemies. No one in Calculus would have ever picked on him or made fun of him. They probably would have stuck up for him if they weren’t terrified themselves. Spike entered the class and saw some familiar faces, but decided to sit at the very front of the class, right in the thick of things.
He was enjoying the look of the classroom. Calculus books were stacked along the walls and derivatives were written in the places where there weren’t any books. It had a nice chalkboard and a roll-down map. Spike wondered why on earth a math class would have a bleedin’ map. The teacher looked exactly like he had envisioned; a nice southern man, little plump with a Hawaiian button-down shirt, booming voice and beard.
All of a sudden, he was knocked out of his thought. The Buffy senses kicked in. Couldn’t be her. But, sure enough, she entered the classroom a little while after he sensed her. Her tight dark blue jeans and baby blue shirt filled out in all the right places. She talked casually with the teacher for a minute, handed him a slip, and sat in the seat adjacent Spike. Oh soddin’ hell. Well I just won’ talk to her.
Class started and Mr. Anderson, the teacher, was reviewing some stuff everyone should have learned in Calculus AB. Spike wasn’t paying much attention. He had already learned and knew it; no point in going over the ABCs again if you already read Lolita. He tried not to, but all he could do was think about Buffy. I soddin’ hate this. She controls my bleedin’ mind.
And what the fuck is she doing in Calculus? Spike almost blurted out. She’s s’pose to be a valley girl. Dumb as a brick. Buffy certainly conversed with that appeal, but Spike wasn’t all that sure if she fit the profile of a valley girl anymore. It looked like she had a pretty good grasp on math; if she was in a Calculus class she must have taken the prerequisites. Perhaps her knowledge extended to other subjects, maybe even existentialism, literature, and current events. If that’s the bloody case, then why does she act like she was just beamed down from The Real Orange County?
“Gonna be bad in this class, too?” she whispered across to him.
He could feel her mischievous grin on him. It made him uncomfortable. “Maybe. ‘fraid I’ll light your hair on fire or something?”
She giggled. “Not really. You are William. The same person that—”
“Sod it,” he stifled quickly in a cough. Buffy was about to say something when Mr. Anderson turned around.
“Buffy Summers,” Mr. Anderson called to her. “Can you tell me what the antiderivative of this function is?”
He pointed at the chalkboard and Buffy looked at the problem, completely perplexed with her mouth agape; it looked like she was trying to read Sumerian that had just been translated from Egyptian with a crossover from pig Latin.
“Um... no,” she stated aloud, embarrassed that the whole class now knew her total lack of Calculus skill. “I told you I was a little behind.”
Spike snickered at that. “A little?” he added with a chuckle. Buffy reddened further.
“Spike,” the teacher now glared at him. Spike’s body immediately went ramrod straight like that of a Marine.
“Sir, Mr. Anderson, Sir.” He barked with a salute.
The whole class erupted in laughter from Spike’s basic training impersonation. Spike didn’t want to josh his way passed this class, but he wasn’t learning anything here, either.
“Cut the crap. Perhaps you would like to tutor Miss Summers on her apparent lack of knowledge?” Mr. Anderson asked this as a question, but everyone knew it was an order.
Spike looked a little bummed. Can’t disappoint my favorite teacher already. Or get him soddin’ hating me.
“Sure,” he sighed finally.
“Good, now let’s get back to work,” Mr. Anderson started substituting the 3x in the integral, which was probably obvious to everyone who wasn’t Buffy.
Spike stole periodic glimpses at Buffy every chance he got. Since they were sitting in the front, Spike could only imagine what the people behind him were thinking. Probably that I’m a wanker his head whispered to himself. But... goddamn, fuck it, she’s gorgeous. True, even Buffy’s toenails were in some way beyond breathtaking to Spike, but he had to get himself together. This is the same wench that picked on me. What in the buggerin’ hell would incline me to give her the time of day? He took another look at her vibrant face and found his answer almost too swiftly.
The bell rang and class ended without as much as another peep from Buffy or Spike. Spike thought he would grunt in pleasure if he saw Buffy get up and walk out the door, so he decided to jump up and run out as fast as he could.
“Hey, Spike,” she cooed softly from her desk. Spike spun around at her and grinned sardonically. Okay, I can do this. Just keep up Spike. No William. She’s still a bitch.
“Hey, Buffy,” he replied mockingly with the same soft tone.
Buffy looked a little cut by his mockery, but she continued anyway. “We need to discuss when and where we’re going to study. I was thinking my hou—”
“No soddin’ way,” he cut her off. But the idea of being in Buffy’s house was strangely erotic. His house was a good idea, too. Really, any idea with a house involved – a good idea. But... what...? Why am I thinking this? Does her intelligence amend for her past crimes? Just because she might not be a valley girl on the inside doesn’t mean she's a-okay with me. Far from it. Maybe I’ll bang her hard and make her scream or something. But no bleedin’ Shakespeare crap.
“Well we can’t do it at yours,” Buffy muttered, breaking his train of thought. “I can’t get a ride.”
Spike sighed heavily. Melodramatically. Like they do in those teen dramas on the WB. He did this purposely just to piss off Buffy. “Fine. After school today at five. I know where you live.” The last sentence sounded a little too stalker-esque.
Buffy had a surprised look on her face, judging the last sentence in much the same way as Spike.
Spike tried to cover it up with a shrug and a cool grin. “I’ll help you. But if I get a disease or anything, I’m killing you.”
Buffy smirked. “Oh, no, you won’t. Maybe a venereal disease, but that’s a stretch.”
Yes, I seriously just left you hanging. I’m sorry. Tell me I’m a mean, bad man in the review. Do it. Also tell me how you like the “study group” subplot. Because, yeah, they’re going to study. Yeah...