THE WRATH OF DAWN

by cynthia and greg leitich smith

“Where’s the dry cleaning?” Mom demands as she opens my bedroom door. “You know your father?—”

“Stepfather,” I say. My mom married him eleven months, two weeks, and four days ago. Worse, he came with a prissy daughter who’s a couple of years older than me and two obnoxious sons who’re a few years younger. I’m outnumbered, and, as if that’s not bad enough, we also had to move to their house.

“—needs his gray suit for a client meeting tomorrow morning.”

I notice the Colonel himself hasn’t deigned to grace me with his presence (no, he doesn’t sell fried chicken—he’s a retired Marine who works as a security consultant).

As Mom’s rant goes on, I minimize the Web page on my PC so she won’t catch a glimpse of the bare-assed fan art beside the Underworld fic I’m reading.

“You know, Dawn, your sister?—”

“Stepsister,” I put in. Megan. The athletic one. She of the chemical blondness. The one whose boyfriends have heavy brow-ridges and square jaws. “Megan took the car before I could run errands.”

“You should have told her you needed it,” Mom replies, because it’s important that everything be my fault.

I don’t point out that I tried but Megan ignored me. I don’t point out that even if I hadn’t told her, she could’ve asked me before taking off.

Mom crosses her arms. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to give her a chance. This adjustment hasn’t been easy for Megan, either.”

I don’t say it, but it bothers me when Mom takes her side. The thing is, I did try in the beginning. When our parents announced their engagement at the Olive Garden, I told Megan in the ladies’ restroom that it was hard for me, too. Out of nowhere, she starts yelling at me that I don’t know anything and that my visiting my dad at his apartment in Round Rock is totally different from her visiting her mom’s grave in Smithville.

Of course it’s different. I get that—I got it then—but Megan’s treated me like a lesser species ever since. Like how she always calls my room “the guest room.” And how she always foists little-brother-babysitting duty on me because I have “no life.”

I offer up a theatrical sigh. “Poor Megan!”

“You’re grounded,” Mom says as she exits.

I don’t bother to shrug. To Mom, “grounded” means not going out, but doesn’t include ’net, cell, or DVD restrictions. By this weekend, she’ll have moved on to another of my allegedly fatal flaws, and it’s not like I’ve got plans on the average Tuesday night.

When Mom leaves, I shut the door behind her. Then I bring my browser back up on screen and begin checking RSS feeds. I read this story about a sixth grader in Wyoming who’s trying to get a new word accepted into The Unauthorized Dictionary of the Klingon Language. It’s kind of cute, so I comment Qapla! Then I happily spend the next hour on the readergirlz boards at MySpace.

My mood is ruined again when Megan bursts into the room.

“You could knock,” I say without turning around.

“Sorry,” Megan replies. Then she says the most shocking thing imaginable: “Want to come with me tonight to the Buffy Sing-Along?”

Megan knows I want to go. I’ve been talking about it for weeks. And she’s just come from speaking to Mom. She’s clearly toying with me.

I shake my head. “Thanks to you, I’m grounded.” I swivel in my desk chair. “Wait. You’re going?”

Megan is not into anything remotely interesting. Her tastes are simple. She watches “reality” television. Worse, she wants to be on reality television. Last week, the Colonel practically pissed a kidney stone when she mentioned driving to San Antonio to audition for So You Want to Marry a Movie Star?

“Ryan’s working the sing-along tonight,” Megan replies. “We’re going out after.”

Ah, Ryan. The second and blander of her great loves. Like her, he rows a skinny boat backward and is into other sports that involve grunting and spandex.

I do have to admit, though, that he’s pretty much gorgeousness personified. His only physical defect is the beginning of what promises to be a severe case of male-pattern baldness.

“He’ll be bald by twenty-two,” I say.

“Who cares what he’ll look like at twenty-two?” She winks like we just shared a moment, which we did. But I don’t think we got the same thing out of it.

“This involves me…why?” I ask, getting back to the Slayer.

Megan’s smile turns brittle. “For reasons I don’t understand, Ryan’s cousin Eric will be joining us, and we need someone to keep him out of our way.”

I’m in no mood to babysit again. “Waterloo doesn’t allow kids under ten.”

Megan steps daintily through the maze of paperbacks and graphic novels on my floor, brushes imaginary lint from my black comforter, and sits, addressing me in the same tone she might use with a cocker spaniel. “I’m not asking you to babysit, Dawn. I’m setting you up on a blind date.”

I make a half-laugh, half-barfing noise. “No.”

Megan lifts her French-manicured nails, examining them. “It won’t kill you. He’s not a troll, and he’s into the same geeky stuff you are.”

I minimize the screen again. “Like?”

“Like, like Buffy!” she replies, glancing at my posters. “Star Trek! Batman! Comic books, and…” Her gaze lingers appreciatively on Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine.

Despite myself, I’m tempted. I adore Buffy. Well, actually, I like Buffy. I adore Willow and Tara, and I think their love ballad is the most romantic…Wait. Even if Eric is cool and it didn’t mean spending a whole evening with Megan…“I’m still grounded.”

“Carol says it’s okay so long as you’re with us,” Megan replies, standing.

I hate it when she calls my mom “Carol,” and I’m positive the “date” aspect is going to suck. Still, it is Buffy. “Fine, I’m in,” I say. Then I add, “But you’re paying for everything.”

The doorbell rings at seven sharp. I rush to the door. Fortunately, the twins don’t realize a world exists beyond their latest video game, and the Colonel isn’t here to indulge in his usual tactic when a boy comes over (giving him the third degree while ostentatiously cleaning his Winchester thirty-ought-six on the living room coffee table).

“Um, hi,” Eric says.

He’s a little over six feet tall, skinny, generally symmetrical, has fewer than the average number of pimples and a full head of hair. He’s also wearing blue jeans and a green button-down oxford shirt, which is kind of boring and does nothing to set off my black sleeveless T, black tiered knit skirt, and combat boots.

Still, I’ve seen worse.

“Told you he was borderline cute,” Megan murmurs as she comes down the hall. Brushing by, she adds, “I asked Daddy to lay off his whole intimidation-by-firearms shtick.”

I take that in as she leads me out the front door to a minivan with fake wood paneling. We live in Austin, so I walk around to look at the bumper stickers: THE WHEATGRASS PRESERVATION SOCIETY. SAVE OUR SPRINGS. Number three is the universal negative symbol crossing out the name Wesley.

I take shotgun (Megan for once is happy to ride by herself, lower profile, in back). And as Eric backs out of the driveway, I ask, “Wesley Wyndham-Price or Wesley Crusher?”

Eric hits the brake and glances at me. “Oh, Crusher. I’m sure you’ll agree that Wesley Wyndham-Price was less than outstanding in his early Buffy appearances?—”

“Though he made Giles seem more buff?—”

“Granted, but in any case, he dramatically improved on Angel, whereas Wesley Crusher started out bad and went downhill. No redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

“Sure there were,” I say, undaunted. “Redeeming qualities, that is.” I try to recall if there’s a single episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation in which Wesley Crusher is not annoying. Okay, maybe I’m a tad daunted.

I have to admit it, though. Megan was right. Eric’s not a troll.

Glancing at his MapQuest printout, Eric begins reverse engineering his way out of the neighborhood. A moment later, he shoots me that supercilious look of the über-geeky. “Well?”

An instant later I have the answer. I take a breath to ensure there’s no smugness in my voice. “He’s not Dr. Z.”

“Who?”

“Starbuck’s kid. You know, Starbuck from BattlestarGallactica.”

“She?—”

“He,” I interrupt. “He has a kid. In the original series.” Which I used to watch with my dad on the only surviving Betamax videotape player this side of eBay. “Actually, it was Galactica1980.”

Eric looks at me like I’ve turned into a Fyarl demon and swerves just in time to avoid a bicyclist.

I’ve established enormous geek cred.

“A spin-off,” I say. “Probably the single worst example of the child-genius motif in science fiction history. Much worse than Wesley Crusher.” I’m actually enjoying myself now. “Dr. Z always had this weird white glow about him, practically an aura, which I suppose was how people could tell he was a genius.” I fiddle with my seat belt. “Well, that and the fact that Commander Adama genuflected every time he saw him.”

“La, la, la,” Megan sings from the back, sounding bored but amused.

I’d half forgotten she was back there.

Eric does the smart thing and ignores her. “Yeah, the kid-genius thing is bad, but it pales next to the previously unknown, never-mentioned pseudo-sibling who appears suddenly out of nowhere.”

“Fascinating,” Megan mutters, checking her lipstick.

“Most prevalent on family sitcoms,” Eric adds, “but also frequent and problematic in speculative fiction.”

“Well, yes, there’s Dawn,” I say, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. As we slow, stuck in traffic, I add, “Believe me, I know. I bear the burden of her name.”

A lot of people have issues with Buffy’s sister. But kleptomania aside, Dawn always tried to be one of the good guys. And every once in a while she was really brave.

“Are you familiar with the usenet group alt.dawn.die.die.die?” Eric asks. At my nod, he announces, “I founded it.”

I give him a long, considering glare and try to decide if he’s trying to piss me off or whether he just doesn’t have any social skills.

“Look, Dawn Summers was thematic,” I tell him. “Summers blood. Saving the world, again. It made sense. Besides, it’s not like those monks asked Dawn if she wanted to be transformed from a ball of energy into Buffy’s little sister.”

“Oh, my God!” Megan interrupts with a bark of laughter. “No wonder neither of you can get dates by yourselves.”

“Honestly,” I say, “was Dawn really all that bad?”

“She whines,” Eric replies. “All of the pseudo-siblings whine.”

“Not Tim Drake Robin,” I shoot back, although, to be fair, he didn’t start out as Dick Grayson’s sibling (or Bruce Wayne’s son) per se.

“Jason Todd Robin?”

“He deserved to die,” I admit. I hold my breath, worried Eric will counter with the abomination that was Spock’s half-brother, Sybok. Even I don’t have a defense for that.

A light changes, and we’re moving again.

“Why do you two know all this?” Megan asks.

I glance over my shoulder. “Who won the third American Idol?”

As we turn into the parking lot, she says, “That’s different. It’s popular.”

Waterloo Cinema isn’t like other movie theaters. The auditoriums have great stadium seats with long tables secured in front of each row. Even better, they have actual waiters who serve food and drink during the film itself.

We take in the crowd and settle into our seats about five minutes before the show starts. I’m oddly pleased by how packed the theater is. How popular the show is, even after all this time.

As we sit down, we’re given bottles of soap bubbles, plastic vampire teeth, and cigarette lighters.

Megan examines hers like they’re the unclean symbols of a mysterious, foreign, and possibly dangerous culture.

She gives up when her boyfriend Ryan takes our orders—Greek salad with chicken for Megan, burger and fries for Eric, a flaming chocolate bomb for me.

I ignore my stepsister’s look of horror as a cheer rises and the overture begins.

It’s an interactive show. When Tara serenades Willow, we blow magic bubbles. When Buffy walks through the fire, we raise our lighters high.

And we sing. We sing along.

Except when Dawn appears on screen. At the urging of the host, the audience boos, hisses, and glories in attacking her (even though it was Xander who summoned the tap-dancing demon in the first place). You can’t even hear the soundtrack.

Megan looks baffled.

Eric, though, has to be the loudest person in the building. “Go away, Dawn!” he shouts, cupping his hands over his mouth like a megaphone. “Loser!”

Very mature. He’s definitely trying to piss me off. Who the hell does he think he is? What makes him think he’s so cool, anyway?

Besides, it’s not just my name he’s jeering. It’s every newbie, every little sister who wasn’t there before. It’s the lesser sibling…the one blamed for everything…my God, it’s me.

Not that anyone else seems to care.

“Get off the screen!” shouts the guy behind me.

“Screw you, Dawn!” screams a girl down in front.

“Die, Dawn, die!” someone yells from down the aisle.

At that, I decide I’ve had it. I’ve had it with Eric. I’ve had it with Megan. I’ve had it with everything. I’m frustrated. I’m furious. And I’m wired on sugar.

I drop my spoon and wipe chocolate from my lips.

I duck beneath the long table in front of my row and run to the stage, snatching the wireless microphone from the host on my way.

“You can’t do that!” Ryan exclaims, snagging my arm.

“Get the hell out of my way,” I say, enunciating carefully, “or I’ll tell Colonel Green you deflowered his daughter in the backseat of your Volvo last fall after the A&M game.”

Ryan turns pale—brow ridge, square jaw and all, and for the first time, he really sees me. “Okay.”

“I need the stage.”

“Okay,” he says again, backing away.

As I block the screen, the hisses and boos grow louder, and for a moment, I’m blinded by the projector light. Then I’m in the spotlight.

“My name is Dawn!” I shout into the microphone, and my voice sounds loud, louder than I expected. Loud enough to be heard over the soundtrack.

“Your name is Dawn.” I go on, in an only slightly more sane tone, realizing as I say it that metaphor isn’t my best hope.

“So what if she’s awkward? So what if she whines about her sister? Are you honestly telling me that you have never whined?”

The crowd’s reply? More jeers, laughter, and a possible death threat from a man wielding a quesadilla.

“Come on!” I try again. “A lot of people didn’t like Wesley in the beginning. A lot of people didn’t like Tara in the beginning.”

I scan the crowd again. The hardcore Angel fans are listening now. The Willow–Tara ’shippers, too.

“We’ve all been like Dawn,” I argue. “We’ve all felt out of place. Sure, here, here, you belong. Here you’re among your own. But what about out there?”

“Out there, people like her”—I point to Megan—“look down on you, judge you, and scorn you. She isn’t even here for Buffy! She’s here for her waiter-boyfriend!”

Is it working? It’s not working. Is it? No. Only a few heads are nodding.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I don’t know what I was thinking. My sugar high has worn off.

“We must stand together!” I raise my fist, defiant. It’s my last, best shot to convince them. “We must embrace our inner Dawn!”

Silence. Gaping, lonely silence.

It feels like the end of the world.

Just as I’m ready to hand off the mic and slink away, Megan stands and begins to clap. Slowly at first, but loud. Really loud. She looks me in the eye, then gives a small nod and a knowing, appreciative smile.

Like we’re sisters or something.

In the next moment, Eric is standing beside her. And he’s cheering, too.

Then Megan offers up this amazing two-fingers-in-her-mouth piercing whistle. I didn’t even know she could do that. It’s gloriously non-prissy. It’s fantastic!

That’s when it happens. Maybe it was my argument. Maybe it was my scary zeal. Whatever the reason, as soon as Megan whistles, the crowd is on its feet.

They’re blowing bubbles. They’re raising their lighters high.

They’re cheering through their fangs…

For Dawn Summers, for themselves and each other, for every sibling who got tossed into a situation beyond her control.

For me.

And for my sister, who whistles again…

Once more with feeling.

Text by Holly Black and Cecil Castellucci. Illustrations by Bryan Lee O’Malley.