thwartevil

[thwartevil]

[thwartevil]

I’m fine, really. Thriving Girl, that's me. Every morning is exactly like this one. I slip into a respectably cute college–girl outfit and I paste on a sunny bright smile before I head out the door, pepped and ready to go through the Freshman motions. I hit the coffee cart first, which is a non-negotiable must, then I call my mom, who’s been way more with the angst since I moved onto campus. After about ten minutes, give or take one of her spectacular, passive aggressive guilt trips, I head for my morning classes with the promise to see her this Friday, (with a surprise bundle of dirty laundry to boot) fresh on my lips. My first few classes are yawners. I spend most of it going over slay-strategies and last night's hunt as I pick the shimmery-blue polish off my nails. It's really all that I can do to keep myself awake. — major kudo for my caffeine kick!!  I guess I’m being kinda harsh, the classes aren’t that dull, per se, they just don’t require brain cells, or tickle my new found academic curiosity as much as Psych or European history do. Both of which I am pretty sure I’m failing. If Professor Walsh’s most recent scowl of disappointment and accompanying, “I expect you to apply yourself in my class Miss Summers!” Is anything to go by then, goodbye to my future of financial and parental independence. Hello, playing Pinochle with my mom and all of her wine shaped friends. When I’m not flipping burgers for minimum wage. And it’s all thanks to my Fangs and Gnarly after dark extracurricular. In highschool being the Slayer never did leave a whole lot of time for the big-brains stuff, or I guess, the no brainer stuff, like sleep. But being A Slayer in college? Now that’s a whole other ballpark of intense under eye-bags. I swear at this point I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve woken up with Vampire dust in my hair, or something way / way / worse, and the pages of one of my text books stuck to my cheek. But Persistence is key and so, I muddle through. By my second cup of Coffee-Cart goodness I’ve almost completely convinced myself that I’ve mastered the art of matriculating dealage. I sip my coffee and check my watch, it’s a quarter past one and I realize that in all my aimless moseying and self congratulations, time has slipped away from me and I’m late to meet Willow. I pull my satchel over my shoulder and I reach in with my hand to dig around for my phone. I must have forgotten to take it off silent after class because when I look at it I have a text-message from Wil. I feel my heart sink. I know what it’s about before I open it. She’s canceling. Another Wiccan emergency that I won’t understand, not that she’s giving me a chance to understand anything. She's been pretty evasive lately. I type back a quick text about meeting up with her and Xander later, before patrol and I slip my phone back into my bag.

I guess I have time to kill. I should probably use it to study. That would be the well-adjusted college kid thing to do. I look around at the direction signs and I wrinkle my nose. Months on campus and I still haven’t memorized how to get to the library. (Somewhere out there right now a cold feeling is washing over a severely perturbed Giles, I know it.) My eyes fall on a tree, the big idyllic kind with pink petals in full bloom that have begun to fall, making a pretty, inviting pink-blanket for me on the grass below. I quickly walk towards it, setting my bag and coffee down next to the stump before I sit with my back against it and take out my books. I sigh and smile softly, it’s perfect. I’m barely two chapters into classical antiquity, when an over shadow crosses the pages resting in my lap. I look up to see a man, who kinda looks like he’s been plucked straight off the glossy cover of dreamboat professor weekly, looking fixedly down at me. When he doesn’t say anything after a moment, one that is dangerously close to spanning into two and then inevitable weirdness territory, I raise my brows in question.  “Can I help you?” I ask, a faint friendly enough smile turning up the edges of my lips as I pick up a pettle and place it on the page I was reading before I close my book. “Miss Summers?” He responds in a thick, fresh off the boat, Gilesian accent. I blink up at him, my mouth stupidly agape. “Wow. Triple Deja Vu.” “Pardon me?” He frowns.

[thwartevil]