Look Out
For two weeks, all Xander could see anywhere he looked were police cars.
He couldn´t help but watch out for them, scanning traffic to see if there were any, zeroing in on them if he spotted one in his peripheral vision while he walked to school or ducked through town on his way home.
Sometimes he snuck glances at the officers inside, all the while pretending like his target was something further along on the horizon: maybe the goal posts at the end of game time, where the security detail had, oh, look at that, been stationed for the whole game, and was on the verge of packing up. Maybe he was checking out a brightly lit store front, in front of which a patrol car had just so happened to sidle up in front, the passenger seat officer leaning out to say a few words to scatter straggling kids.
Maybe he was looking for cop cars all the time. But then, he had more time on his hands than he had expected.
It wasn´t like he had thought he and Oz would trade stories after that one night in the alley. But what had happened –– he couldn´t talk about it to anyone else, that was for sure. Even if he felt like no one else would get it, not even a best friend, at least Oz had been there. He´d heard everything that had happened, everything that Angel had said.
But whenever Xander kept an eye peeled for Oz, he would only get glimpses of Oz going away. Some days he´d just catch the back of Oz´s now dark–green head as Oz disappeared into the mob of students running around between classes. Even if he happened on the group of kids who always knew where Oz was, Devon and his crew, they claimed they hadn´t seen Oz in forever.
He even went around the back of the school building to the dumpsters a couple of times, where they used to hang when they had cut classes. Oz was never there either. But once in a while if he breathed in deep, he could get past the scent of trash to a lingering odor of weed, like someone had only finished smoking up moments before. Other times, if he looked really hard at the grit and ash on the ground, he thought he could see flakes of curled paint that could have been peeled–off ovals of black nail polish.
But he couldn´t, for all his trying, find Oz himself.
The worst part was that everything that had happened with Angel and since then was exactly the kind of mess he used to be able to run through out loud to Oz. Oz could hear about something like this, that Xander couldn´t make any sense out of, and just nod or say next to nothing, but in the end somehow put it all into place.
Finally, one day when they had early release from classes, Xander spotted saw a familiar figure –– short, quick, wearing black jeans gone gray from too much washing, a ratty t–shirt with a decal on the front featuring some local band, and with hair standing straight up like something had spooked him –– Oz, weaving through the gaps of kids clustered around the main building.
He hesitated, but then loped forward to catch up.
"Hey, want a hand?" he blurted when he was at Oz´s elbow.
Oz looked over his shoulder. Both his arms clutched an amp, and his guitar was slung over his book bag. He blinked and rolled one shoulder up at Xander´s words, like if his hands were free, he would have been shielding his eyes in the glare.
Then he handed the amp off to Xander.
Xander groaned as he hefted it. He should have known. For a small dude, Oz had super strong arms from playing and hauling equipment around. Whatever Oz carried was always heavier than it looked.
They made their way to the side parking lot in silence, until Oz stopped in front of a dirty white van. "That´s your brother´s ride, right?" Xander observed. "Is he here to pick you up?"
There was a wary set to Oz´s face as he glanced Xander´s way, but then his expression relaxed. "Nah. Got my permit a couple of days ago, and a set of keys to this heap." He unlocked the back and swung the doors open so he could load his gear.
When he grabbed the amp from Xander, Xander rubbed his bare arms to relieve them from the redness the weight had raised. "Aren´t you supposed to drive with someone else when you´ve only got a permit?" Xander asked.
"Probably," Oz said evenly. He closed both doors, leaving his hand resting against the metal for a moment. "So. You want a lift?"
"Really? Yeah."
He scrambled in before Oz could change his mind. Soon enough they were rattling along down the street.
"So I´ve kind of wanted to talk to you for a while," Xander began.
"Huh." Oz kept his eyes on the road.
"I just thought, you know, we should . . . figure stuff out together," Xander added.
Oz reached over to turn on the CD player duct–taped to the dash. A song, music and words unfocused and raw, started up.
They went through two intersections before another word was spoken.
"Should we?" Oz asked finally.
"Well. Yeah." Xander chewed on his lip as he thought of what to say next. All this time, he´d been trying to get Oz to talk to him, and now that they were motoring along together, he had no clue where to start.
"See, I don´t know if that´s such a hot idea." Oz checked his mirror on the left and eased into the next lane. "Maybe it´d be better if you talked to someone else."
"Who else?" Xander´s voice swung up and cracked on the last word.
Oz shrugged. "Maybe like . . . I don´t know . . . a counselor at school."
Xander slid down in his bucket seat, jamming his hands into his pockets. "That´s not –– I don´t want . . ." He sighed in exasperation. "We always hang out, you and me."
"That we do," Oz agreed in a soft voice.
"And if I can´t talk to you about ––" He broke off, and stared hard out the window.
The click–click of the turn signal went on, and Oz pulled over, shut off the ignition.
"What happened in that squad car was pretty fucked up," Oz said at last. "And I don´t know how far we´re going to get, you and me, trying to hash through it all. That guy . . . he was like a psycho in cop´s clothing, you know? You keep in a story like that, about someone who screws you up that way, and you only let him fuck you all over again."
Xander rubbed his damp hands on his jeans. "Okay. So I guess Spike did seem crazy. And scary. And more crazy."
When Oz laughed out loud, Xander jerked back from the sound.
"God, Xander, I´m talking about Angel. Remember Angel, the guy who got into the back seat with you?" Oz stopped, shaking his head. "Something like that´s too big for me to handle, okay?"
"The hell are you talking about?" Xander´s fists curled tight, fingers pressing hard against the skin. "Spike was the freaky one. Angel, he ––"
Oz interrupted, "Spike is crazy. No doubt. But he´s not exactly trying to hide that."
Xander gaped. "What are you saying, that Angel´s the bad guy out of the two of them? He didn´t –– it wasn´t like what Spike did to you, what he made you do, and maybe you´re the one who needs to talk to someone. Did you ever think about that?"
Oz turned to look at him fully. "What was it like? With Angel?"
Xander´s voice faltered. "He didn´t try to –– he took care of me––"
"Jesus, Xander," Oz broke in.
"What happened between us –– maybe you can´t understand it," Xander said, his voice gaining strength now. "Because maybe it´s not over. I think he´s been following me . . ."
"If he is, then you need to get help, and quick," Oz shot back. "Not just counselor help, but someone to keep him the hell away from you."
At that Xander looked away. Oz inhaled sharply. "You don´t want to keep him away from you. Do you?"
It only took a moment to decide. Xander leaned all his weight on the door to get it to open. "It´s sticking," he threw back over his shoulder as he flung himself to standing position on the sidewalk. "You probably want to get that looked at."
"Xander, wait," Oz called.
"I´m good walking home," Xander said. He was already backing away. "Hey, I´ll see you at school sometime, all right?"
He rushed off at a half–walk, half–jog. There was only one time he looked back, and when he did, Oz wasn´t even looking in his direction. He was staring off into the distance. And when Xander followed his gaze, he thought for a moment that he saw a dark–haired man with broad shoulders in the police car idling at the corner.
The End
