The empty refrigerator and picture of herself with her mother provided two conflicting influences in Buffy’s rather uneasy decision. The motivation of getting those few extra dollars each month for the inconvenient need of food was rather strong, but her mother’s gaze, along with the approval the image so aptly inspired, pulled the blonde’s heartstrings in just the right way to cause a real conflict.
When her mother had lost her struggle with cancer just after she’d graduated from high school, Buffy had no idea how she would manage. She didn’t even know what she wanted to do with her life, let alone how to accomplish the not-quite-present goals. In an impulsive decision, the teenager chose art as her major at UCLA—and she loved it.
Her choice had obviously been influenced by her mother, who had owned a gallery in Sunnydale, where they’d lived. Never before really taking into account what her mother had done to support the two, a grieving Buffy had taken out her mother’s spare canvases and tried her best to emulate the talent within her dearly-departed; if her hidden aptitude had not been exposed then, the blonde had no idea where her life would be at that moment.
She had tried her best to get along without anyone else’s support, without having to rely upon her no-good deadbeat father’s money; her entire motivation to be here was for her mother, and to receive assistance from he who had left the two of them alone would have been rather insulting to the cause. So Buffy worked nearly all of her spare time waitressing at the Bronze, one of L.A.’s more respectable clubs, refusing to do anything to lower herself or the memory of her mother.
Until this moment.
Buffy tried to think of the conversation she and Joyce would have had if she’d brought up her conundrum. Of course, if her mother had lived, she probably would not need to take the job, nor would probably be studying art. However, the painful thoughts still took form within her highly conflicted mind.
Buffy, you look thin. Have you been eating enough?
You know finals are coming up, Mom—it’s probably just stress.
But you look so thin, sweetie.
Well… I was thinking about getting another job.
You already work too much as it is!
But this one’s different—I’d sit for William Pratt, Mom, isn’t that great?
For him to paint you? Why Buffy, that’s incredible! You know how much I’ve admired his works, I’ve always said it was high time for him to bring his talent to America.
Yeah, it is… There’s just one problem. The guy paying for the portraits… He wants them to be of the skin-revealing variety… Entirely.
Oh… Well, what do you think, Buffy?
Huh? Doesn’t that bother you?
You know I have some nudity in the gallery—remember that unfortunate incident with the fertility statue? It’s art, dear, and there really should be no shame in the appreciation of the body.
But… but what if someone says something to you—
I’d tell them to talk to me when William Pratt’s painted their daughter!
“Okay, that went waaaay too well,” Buffy said out loud, the somewhat surprising conversation she’d just had with… herself, revealing a take on the problem that she’d never quite considered. Now that she thought about it, her mother did understand art—maybe someone else would have had qualms with the portraits, but she would have realized that there was nothing smutty about nudity in paintings. Of course, there was the other problem—the ever-present one that at this moment was calling her on her phone. Again. For the fourth time that night.
“Riley.”
“Buffy, I just wanted to call because I felt so bad how our last conversation ended… And I know you’re doing things right now, but when you’re done, do you think you’d want to come over to the frat house and watch a movie or something?” The movie request, so artfully worked into the whining apology… Knowing that any movie they put on would be ignored by one or more of them, Buffy gave a weary sigh, taking the time to enact her reply.
“Not in the movie mood, Riley, but if you’re not doing anything right now, do you think you could meet me at the coffee place by my dorm in twenty minutes?”
“Sure!” he eagerly replied, the twinge of disappointment in his voice disappearing as another thought formed in his head. “Hey, didn’t you say Willow’s out tonight—”
“Oh, sorry, can’t hear you, you’re breaking up,” Buffy quickly said. “See you in twenty!”
She’d put up with this for far too long. Knowing that the highly possessive young man would have severe oppositions to her tempting offer, Buffy had finally taken Willow’s advice into serious consideration. Although the thoughts hadn’t been new, her growling stomach was finally fed-up (no pun intended) with the crap of Riley Finn. And Buffy was set to end it now.
~*~
Buffy woke that morning with a considerably lighter step, getting up at the first screech of her alarm clock instead of letting it go off every seven minutes for an hour as she did per usual. Making her way to the bathroom down the hall, she showered and brushed her teeth, heading back to the dorm and styling her hair just right, as not to spend an unreasonable time at the restroom mirror and be faced with the complaints of every narcissistic fashion major there was in Stevenson Hall.
The highly embarrassing scene of the night before had nevertheless been a huge relief to Buffy. Riley had begged for her to take him back (with the prophesized promises of “working it out,” no less), eventually storming from the student-frequented coffee shop in a rather tantrum-esque climax. However, despite the questioning stares from the other patrons, Buffy had ordered herself a blueberry muffin and stayed until she was done, staking her claim to the turf and receiving a few smatters of applause as she made her way out (no doubt from the “Take Back the Night” advocates sitting nearby).
Now it was the morning, and Buffy had the freedom to simply delete the six voicemails left by Riley during the night instead of feeling obligated to listen to them. That business done, she looked through her list on contacts until she found the desired name, and pressed send.
“Mr. Rupert Giles, speaking.”
“Hi, Giles, this is Buffy Summers. We spoke yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Summers! Have you, erm, made a decision regarding the offer?”
“Yes, I’d like to set up an interview?” Her voice was confident, the young woman still riding on the empowering feelings she felt the night before.
“Of course!” The excitement in Giles’ voice only added to the eagerness Buffy felt. The British man gave Buffy an address on a famously affluent street, causing her eyebrow to quirk. Whoever was conducting this, they had some money lying around. “I hate to ask, but do you think you could be available for the interview… today?”
“Sure, I’ve got no plans.” A twinge of excitement wriggled into her stomach at the prospect.
“Excellent! Please be there at 2:30; you may want to bring some reading, Miss Summers, because I’m not sure of the order they will be calling you in, and it may take some time.” Buffy nodded, writing the information down on a notepad. “Present there will be Mr. Angelus, the solicitor; Mr. Pratt, of course, who needs no introduction; and myself. The other applicants will not be present during the actual interview, but they will be waiting there, as well. Buffy,” he said with a cautious tone, “some of these girls are rather… for lack of a better term, vicious. I’d be prepared for a not-so-friendly welcome from them.”
“No problem,” Buffy said, her heart warming at the concern the man felt for her.
“It’s just that I rather like you, and think that William would feel the same way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Giles,” Buffy said, the two sharing their farewells. She hung up the phone and stared at the information printed clearly on the white piece of paper. For some reason, now that she knew it was today, she felt an unnerving pressure to get out, do something, prepare in any way. But she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, let alone what her potential employers wanted.
The blonde was broken out of her reverie when Willow’s cheerful voice entered the room. “Hey, Buffy, how’d the job search go?”