CHAPTER 2

I shoved the schedule into my pocket and made my way down the hallway, dodging clusters of students like I was in a live-action Frogger game. Sunnydale High was bigger than it looked on TV and it wasn´t just the size throwing me off. Everything here was real in a way the show could never capture. The scuffed lockers, the faint smell of bleach and floor polish, the hum of too many voices talking at once-it all hit me at once, vivid and overwhelming.

The California sun poured in through the tall windows, bouncing off the freshly waxed floors and making the place look downright cheerful. Too cheerful. The kind of cheerful that felt like a lie. Because no matter how bright it was, I couldn´t shake the feeling of death being right around the corner. How many times people had found a dead body stuck inside a locker, drained of all blood, or an unused janitors closet being discovered as the resting place of teacher long vanished.

I passed the trophy cabinet on my left and slowed down, glancing at the neatly arranged rows of plaques, ribbons, and trophies behind the glass. It all screamed school spirit—victory over rival high school in track meets, football championships, debate tournaments. I even spotted an ancient chess club trophy gathering dust in the corner. On any other day, I might´ve been impressed. Instead I found myself wondering how many of the winners had actually made it to graduation.

Probably not many.

Shaking off the thought, I kept walking. The library´s double doors loomed ahead, right where they were supposed to be. Sunlight streaming through the windows made the polished wood glow, and for second it looked warm and inviting. But I knew better. It wasn´t the books that gave the library its importance— it was what lay beneath it. The Hellmouth. A literal portal to Hell. And while I had no plans to test the structural integrity of the floorboards today, the knowledge made my skin crawl.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice. The halls were full of students laughing, gossiping, or shoving their way to lockers. I didn´t recognize any faces—not yet, anyway— but that didn´t stop them from giving me curious glances. Being the mayor´s son meant I was already on their radar. Lucky me.

The numbers on the classroom doors ticked upward as I headed deeper into the school. THe noise of the main hallway started to fade, and with it, the sunny California warmth. The farther I went, the more the air felt…off. Cooler. Quieter. It wasn´t wrong exactly, but it wasn´t right either. Like the school itself was holding its breath.

Finally, I spotted the door to Room 207 and slowed down. The room was already filling up, but I took a moment to stop just short of the door, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension creeping up my neck. My dad´s words popped into my head, uninvited but crystal clear.

"First impressions are everything, Richie. Smile big. Stay sharp . People only see what you want them to see."

For once, I agreed. I wasn´t just walking into the homeroom— I was walking onto a stage. My role? Perfect, charming Richie Wilkins, the mayor´s golden boy. The mask was as much for my survival as it was theirs.

Taking a deep breath, I plastered on the kind of a smile that could sell ice to a yeti and stepped inside. Showtime.

* * *

The room was a mess of chatter and movement as students settled into their seats. Desks were scattered in loose rows, some already claimed by backpacks and notebooks, others occupied by kids laughing, whispering or scowling like they´d been dragged here against their will. The teacher wasn´t here yet, which meant everyone was still in full chaos mode.

I scanned the room, trying to figure out where to sit. Back of the class had its perks—less attention, easier to keep an eye on everyone—but it also sent a message. Too cool for school. A rebel. And while that might have worked for someone like Spike, it wasn´t the vibe I was going for. Front and center was a no-go, too—way too eager. Instead, I slid into a seat two rows back, perfectly middle-ground. Invisible enough to blend in, noticeable enough to not look like I was trying to hide.

A girl with a blonde ponytail glanced at me from across the aisle, her eyes narrowing like she was sizing me up. Her friends followed suit, whispering behind their hands. Great. Day one and the gossip train was already leaving the station. I smiled politely and turned back to my desk, pulling out a notebook to look busy.

The classroom door creaked open and the noise level dropped just a fraction. A balding man in a cheap suit strolled in, coffee in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. He had the look of someone who had once loved teaching but was now just counting the days until summer break.

"Alright, settle down, settle down," he said, his voice carrying," he said, his voice carrying the kind of weariness that only came from wrangling teenagers for decades. "Welcome to homeroom, folks. My name is Mr. Carter, and I´ll be your homeroom teacher for the year. Don´t worry. I´m not here to ruin your lives. That´s what your other teachers are for."

A few chuckles rippled through the room. I joined in, just enough to seem polite. Rule number one of high school: laugh at the teacher´s jokes, even if they suck.

Mr. Carter launched into the usual first-day spiel about rules, expectations, and some light guilt-tripping about how he didn´t want to write anyone up for detention. I let it wash over me, nodding along when necessary but mostly keeping my focus on the room. Watching. Listening.

It was an interesting experience, being back in high school again. I could almost feel myself relax—familiar ground, a predictable routine, even if the stakes were higher this time around. In my past life, high school had been all about surviving the social jungle. Here, survival wasn’t just metaphorical. Still, the chaos of it all—the whispering, the awkward shuffling of papers, the occasional poorly stifled laugh—had a strange kind of comfort to it. Some things didn’t change, even when you were sitting on the Hellmouth.

I glanced around, taking in the faces of my new classmates. Some looked bored already, propping their heads up with their hands as Mr. Carter droned on about tardiness policies and locker combinations. Others were still buzzing with first-day energy, scribbling in notebooks or snapping gum. A few caught my attention—mostly the ones who looked... off.

There was a kid in the far corner, chewing on the end of his pen like he was trying to gnaw it in half. His eyes darted around the room like he was expecting something to jump out of the walls. Nervous energy practically rolled off him. Another kid a few rows up had his head down on his desk, completely still, like he was trying to disappear. I couldn’t decide if he was asleep, hungover, or just that good at pretending he wasn’t here.

Then there were the desks themselves. Most were covered in the usual graffiti—hearts, initials, crude jokes—but every so often, I spotted something different. Scratches that looked too deliberate to be random, like someone had carved symbols into the wood. I couldn’t quite make them out from where I was sitting, but they gave me a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

Sunnydale High was just full of little details like that—things you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for them. Most of the kids here weren’t, which was probably for the best. Ignorance might not be bliss, but it was safer than knowing what kind of monsters lived under your feet.

The bell rang, snapping me out of my thoughts. Mr. Carter straightened up and clapped his hands together. “Alright, that’s enough for homeroom. Off to your first-period classes, and try not to get lost. This place is like a maze, but you’ll figure it out. Probably.”

The class laughed weakly, and I packed up my notebook, slinging my bag over my shoulder. First class of the day: Biology, Room 105. Ground floor, left wing. Easy enough. I filed out with the rest of the students, weaving through the slow-moving tide in the hallways.

The school was still buzzing, the crowd surging in waves as everyone made their way to their first class. The sunlight streaming through the windows gave everything an almost idyllic glow. Almost. But no amount of sunshine could erase the way the air seemed... heavier. Like the school wasn’t just a building but something alive, something that breathed.

I reached the ground floor and caught sight of Room 105, the door propped open as students filed in. It was a standard science classroom—rows of black-topped lab tables, a whiteboard at the front, and shelves along the walls lined with jars of preserved specimens that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and chalk, which was as comforting as it was unsettling. At least the Hellmouth didn’t seem to extend into this particular room.

I took my usual spot: middle row, middle seat. The safest option for someone trying to strike the perfect balance between blending in and not looking like they were trying to blend in. Students filtered in around me, chatting, laughing, and settling into their seats. A guy in a denim jacket dropped his backpack onto the table behind me with a loud thud, startling the girl next to him, who gave him an annoyed look.

The teacher entered a moment later, a wiry man with glasses and a sharp, clipped way of speaking that told me he’d been doing this for decades and probably didn’t have much patience left. He introduced himself as Lawrence Higgs and started off by passing out the syllabus, muttering about lab safety and upcoming assignments, his voice barely louder than the hum of conversation still lingering in the room.

I flipped through the syllabus, skimming over the usual warnings about lab safety, participation, and how frog dissections would apparently be the highlight of the semester. Most of it wasn’t anything new. Compared to what I remembered from my old life, it felt… basic. Simplified. In hindsight, it made sense. This was Sunnydale, not exactly a hub of academic excellence. It wasn’t that the teachers were bad, but when your town’s life expectancy was questionable at best, higher education probably wasn’t a top priority.

Middle school had been much the same. Generalized, surface-level, designed to keep kids occupied rather than prepared. Of course, it hadn’t mattered back then. Back then, I’d still been figuring out how to live with two sets of memories and the sinking realization that this world wasn’t just a bad dream.

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The teacher cleared his throat, pulling me back to the present. “Now, as we go through the semester, you’ll be paired with lab partners. I’ll assign those next week, so don’t bother trying to choose your best friend or significant other. Trust me, it won’t work out the way you think.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, followed by groans.

“Hey,” a voice whispered beside me, low enough to not draw attention but insistent enough to cut through the monotony. I glanced over and found a kid with messy brown hair and a crooked grin leaning slightly toward me. His desk was already cluttered with books and a pen that he was twirling between his fingers like a drumstick.

“You’re the mayor’s kid, right?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

I stiffened for a moment before forcing a casual shrug. “Yeah. Richie.”

“Cool, cool. I’m Tom,” he said, still grinning. “So, are we getting the five-star treatment, or is this place as crap as everyone says?”

I snorted softly, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t think my dad’s pulling any strings to upgrade the science lab, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Tom chuckled, nodding toward the teacher. “Figures. Old Higgs over there probably wouldn’t know what to do with new equipment anyway.”

“Wilkins!” Mr. Higgs voice cut through the room, sharp and annoyed. I straightened up instinctively, realizing too late that his gaze was locked on me.

“Yes, sir?” I said, my tone as polite as I could muster.

“Do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class, or are you just catching up on summer gossip?” His eyebrows arched over his glasses, and the room went quiet enough to hear the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“Nothing, sir,” I said quickly, fighting the heat rising to my face. “Just, uh, introducing myself.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “Well, if you’re done with introductions, maybe you can focus on the syllabus. You’ll need it to pass this class.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, glancing down at my notebook as the snickers started around the room. Tom gave me a lopsided grin, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d gotten me in trouble. I rolled my eyes and focused on pretending to take notes.

The rest of the class dragged on, filled with more of Mr. Carter’s monotone explanations and a few halfhearted questions from students trying to score some easy points on day one. Tom didn’t bother trying to talk to me again, though I could feel his gaze flicking toward me every so often, like he was waiting to see if I’d crack.

When the bell finally rang, I was one of the first to pack up and head for the door. Tom caught up to me in the hallway, his grin as wide as ever.

“Guess I owe you one,” he said, falling into step beside me.

“For what? Getting me called out in front of the whole class?” I shot back, though there was no real heat in my voice.

“Exactly,” he said, unfazed. “Now you’ve got a reputation—takes most people at least a week to get noticed.”

“Right,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks for the free PR.”

“Anytime,” he said with a mock salute before veering off toward another hallway. “Catch you later, Richie.”

I watched him go, wondering if this was just typical high school friendliness or if he had some ulterior motive. Either way, I’d be keeping an eye on him. Sunnydale had a way of making people unpredictable.

* * *

After the remaining classes, it felt like lunch arrived in no time. The morning had been a whirlwind of navigating hallways, deciphering a new schedule and sitting through teacher´ first-day monologues. Now, I had a tray full of cafeteria food that looked like it might start moving if I didn´t eat it fast enough.

The lunch hall was massive, much larger than I´d expected. Sunlight poured in through wide skylights, and the hum of hundreds of voices filled the air. Tables were already packed with groups clearly forming along familiar lines: jocks, band kids, cheerleaders, the quiet group in the far corner that didn´t want to be noticed. Cliques weren´t just forming— they were already established, even among the freshmen. Most of these kids knew each other from elementary school, their friendships set long before they walked through these doors.

I didn´t have that luxury. Private school had kept me in a bubble for most of my childhood. If anyone here had ever seen me before, it was probably at some city event my dad had dragged me to, where I had been forced to wear a suit and shake hands with adults four times my age. So, while everyone else seemed to slip into their usual social circles, I was starting from scratch.

Tray in hand my gaze scanned the room, searching for a place to sit, and that´s when I spotted Tom waving me over. He was at a table near the middle of the hall, sitting with two other guys I hadn´t seen before. I hesitated for a second—joining them would make me visible, and visible wasn´t always safe— but eating alone wasn´t much better. I headed over.

"Richie" Tom called, sliding a chair out for me with his foot. "Thought you´d disappeared."

"Yeah, sorry. Got caught up figuring out how to survive the cafeteria food. "I set my tray down and sat, poking at the mashed potatoes. "This stuff is safe to eat, or do I need to call poison control?"

Tom Laughed. "Welcome to Sunnydale High. From what I heard Mondays are always a gamble." He gestured to his friends. "This is Ben"—he nodded toward a tall, broad shouldered guy—"and that´s Jake." The shorter, curly haired one gave me a quick nod before returning to the sandwich he was demolishing.

"Nice to meet you," I said glancing around the table. "So, you guy´s have been friends for a while?"

"Since fourth grade," Ben said with a shrug. "You?"

"Private school," I said, keeping it vague.

"Ah, fresh blood," Jake said with a smirk. "Don´t worry, it´s not that bad. Just watch out for the jocks, they´re sitting by the back tables and try not to piss off Megan." He nodded toward the next table over, where the girl group from homeroom was sitting, laughing.

Megan, as it turned out, was the girl with the ponytail. She was leaning back in her chair, looking effortlessly at ease, her smile as sharp as it was practiced. Her friends seemed to hang on her every word, nodding and giggling like she was handing out pearls of wisdom, instead of a whatever snide comment she must have made.

"Her family owns The Sunnydale Plaza," Tom said, lowering his voice like it was classified information. "Biggest shopping center in town. They´ve got their name on half the city. The Sunnydale Council, too—her dad´s chairing it this year."

"Ah," I said, that explained everything. I didn´t know Megan but I knew her father. He was at just about every event my dad dragged me to, schmoozing with anyone who could help him expand his empire. I hadn´t seen Megan at any of those events, but the confidence she wore made it clear she´d inherited the same sort of zeal from her father.

"She´s harmless," Ben said, shrugging. "Unless you piss her off. Then she´ll make sure everyone in this place knows it."

"Good to know," I said, relaxing in my chair.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics and I let myself settle into the rhythm of it. Tom, Jake and Ben were easy company—normal, effortless, exactly what I needed. But as I glanced back at Megan´s table, I caught her watching me. She didn´t look away, her sharp eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression. Her smile didn´t falter, but it felt less like a friendly gesture and more like a challenge.

I felt a headache coming on, already knowing where it would lead. Turning back to the guys at my table, I focused on the jokes and easy laughter, just a group of guys hanging out on the first day of high school.

* * *

The rest of the day carried the same rhythm as the morning: introductions, syllabi, and the occasional side conversation with Tom and the others whenever the teacher wasn´t looking. By the time the last bell rang, I was more than ready to head home.

Tom and I walked across the yard together to the parking lot, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement. The place was a swarm of students scrambling into the cars, the buses, or loitering in groups, soaking in the last few minutes of freedom before homework started piling up.

"So," Tom said, nudging my arm as we made our way through the crowd. " do you always roll up with a personal driver, or is this a first-day thing?

I glanced ahead and spotted the sleek black car parked near the lot´s edge. Mr. Dawson, my father´s driver, stood by the open door, his usual stoic expression firmly in place.

“Nah, it’s more about keeping me on time than making a statement,” I said with a grin. “But hey, I’m not complaining.

Tom shook his head, grinning. "Man, I thought my brother was spoiled when he got a used Jeep for his birthday. You´re out here living like royalty."

"Yeah, something like that," I said keeping my tone light. It wasn´t like I could explain that the car was about luxury and more about my father keeping tabs on me.

"Anyway," Tom continued, slinging his bag over one shoulder, "are you coming to the welcome party at the Bronze on Thursday? Everyone´s going—it´s kind of a thing."

"The Bronze?" I asked, already knowing the answer but playing aling.

"Yeah, you know the club downtown. All-ages, cheap drinks, bad music—it´s supposed to be a rite of passage. You should come. It´s a good way to meet people who aren´t in the same class."

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I´ll think about it."

"Think fast," Tom said with a laugh, stepping back as we reached the car. "I´ll see you tomorrow, Richie. Try not to let your butler carry your books for you."

I rolled my eyes but couldn´t help smiling. "Later, Tom."

Mr Dawson gave me a polite nod as I slid into the backseat. The cool leather pressed against my skin as I leaned back, watching the school shrink in the rearview mirror. For all Tom´s teasing, I couldn´t help envying his simplicity. No driver. No endless expectations. Just a normal kid living a normal life.

* * *

By the time I got home, the sun was starting to dip lower. casting long, golden streaks across the front yard. The house was quiet, save for the sound of the tv coming from the living room. I stepped inside and spotted my mother sprawled on the couch, a half-full glass of chardonnay in her hand and an empty bottle on the table beside her.

"Hey, Mom," I said, keeping my tone neutral, as this wasn´t a rare occurrence.

She turned her head slowly, blinking like it took effort to focus. "Hi, sweetheart. How was school."

"Fine, just the usual first-day stuff."

"That´s nice," she murmured already losing interest as she turned back to the TV.

I sighed and headed upstairs. My father wasn´t home yet—not that I expected him to be. He´d probably spend another few hours at City Hall, before coming back.

Once in my room, I kicked off my shoes and grabbed my notebook, flipping through the pages of hastily scrawled observations from the day. Names, faces, and snippets of conversation filled the margins, each detail cataloged with the precision of someone trying to prepare for something bigger.

I glanced at my bookshelf, where my carefully hidden stash of magic books sat behind a row of boring textbooks. Most of the books were old, secondhand things I´d managed to find in yard sales after days of searching. While it was possible to find decent books in the Magic Shop downtown from time to time, after I saw a few City Hall employees come and go to the store, I had started avoiding the place like the plague. The books I had weren´t much compared to the treasures Giles would one day hand over to Willow with barely a second thought. She doesn´t know how easy she had it, I thought , a pang of frustration creeping in.

Pulling out one of the older tomes, I flipped to a section on basic levitation spells. Nothing fancy— small objects, coins, pens. Simple stuff. I reached for the salt container tucked in my desk drawer and poured a careful circle on the floor, sitting cross-legged in its center. Placing a cheap ballpoint pen in front of me, I took a deep breath, steadying my thoughts.

I muttered the incantation under my breath, focusing on the pen with all the willpower I could muster. At first, nothing happened. No spark of energy, no flicker of movement. Just me staring at a pen like it might magically take pity on me and float out of sheer goodwill.

I clenched my jaw and tried again, pushing harder, pouring everything I had into the words. The pen wobbled. Just barely. It lifted a fraction of an inch off the floor before clattering back down.

I sat back with a heavy sigh, the disappointment hitting me harder than I wanted to admit. That´s it? I thought bitterly. I´d spent years studying, practicing, doing everything I could to give myself an edge. And all I had to show for it was a shaky levitation. Willow had picked up magic like it was second nature, tossing out spells like they were party tricks. Meanwhile, I was stuck here, struggling to lift a pen.

Brushing the salt away with my hand, I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Frustration gave way to exhaustion as the weight of everything—Sunnydale, the Hellmuth, my father´s plans— pressed down on me like a storm cloud that refused to lift.

It wasn´t much but at least I´d survived day one of highschool. For now, that would have to be enough.