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I have never been to Boston.

My sis is right about that, of course. In my head I know that. In my head I know she's not even my sister!

But my heart tells me she is. And me heart tells me I spent the happiest few months of my life right here on this street! It looks the same today as it did when I left two years ago. I'm gonna cry now, aren't I? So many memories!

So who do I listen to? My head or my heart? If I listen to my head, I've got nothing. Nobody. I'm a freak, less than human. But my sister doesn't listen to her head. My friends don't. They love me and I love them. So the heart wins! So there.

And my heart knew the way, didn't it? I got off the Amtrak and hopped on the Orange Line without even thinking about it. Changed to the #71, and got off at Charles. Just like I was coming home from the mall. Now walking south, just about a block, and... there it is. Oh, wow.

My house! It's after six, so my heart thought my Dad's car would be in the driveway. But my head knows my Dad has never been to Boston either. In fact, I've never met my Dad. I don't have a Dad.

Score one for the head: his car's not here. Who are these kids playing in my yard? What's with the stupid football junk in my window? Where's my bird feeder? Why is the paint all peeling, and blue? My Dad re-painted the whole thing! White. We made it nice! This place is falling apart.

"Why are you crying?" The little boy wanders over to me.

"I used to live here with my Dad." The kid just stares at me. I head off down the street.

I could go see the school. That would bring back memories. Not too many good ones, though. And that's not why I came to Boston.

I came to say goodbye... to her.

So I head down my old street, just like I did about a million times after school. My Dad would have killed me if he knew how far it was! He thought it was a few blocks walk to visit my friend. A few? Try about forty!

There's the bench. How many hours did I spend sitting right there, waiting for the #22 to take me to her? More time than I spent with her! At least, that's how it felt. But don't get me wrong. Just sitting and waiting to go to her felt great.

I sit and watch the customers at the video place across the street. It's a chain now, not the same store, but the people going in and out look the same as they did back then. My hand falls on something carved into the wood bench.

Oh, God! I'm shaking, aren't I? I know what it is before I even look. A heart and our initials. I run my fingers through the grooves I carved. Deep breath. Get a grip.

I should call Buffy. She'll be so pissed. I've been traveling for days, and I don't want her to worry too much. We had a pretty bad fight. She refused to let me to come here. First of all, too dangerous. Second, too expensive. Third, I have never been to Boston anyway! She sounded like a broken record with that one. But she does remember me going to Boston. I went with Dad when I was almost twelve and my parents split up. Buffy and Mom moved to Sunnydale, and we went to Boston. Or so the memories the Monks made tell me. Why give me memories of moving to Boston? Just to hurt me?

God, how I missed Mom that first year! I didn't miss Buffy quite so much. We never got along too great in L.A. But we grew closer when I'd fly in for a visit once or twice a year. After a few years, I joined Mom and Buffy and I had a real family again. Dad never wanted me anyway. After Mom died, Dad called Buffy. He has no idea who I am. Mom had memories of me, but Dad never got any. Why should he? He was only a part of my life before I was real.

Since I came to Sunnydale, my sister's been my best friend. She died for me! I was gonna die for her–for everybody–but she wouldn't have it. I feel kinda bad running away from her like this. But Buffy doesn't know why I had to come. Had to. Nobody knows. Nobody but me knows about... her.

I look down at the bench where I carved the heart. No other way to beat these shakes. Of course, the carving isn't mine. Not my initials, and not hers. I have never been to Boston before today. I have never sat on this bench.

Shut up, head! My heart tells me the #22 is coming to take me to her. And guess what? There it is.

The other end of Charles Avenue is not such a nice neighborhood. You wouldn't even think it's the same street. So many stops to get there! Takes an hour each way, sometimes more. I used get back home pretty late sometimes. But I always walked the last block or two. No way was my Dad going to find out where my friend really lived!

I laugh a little to think how we all worshipped her. I was in seventh grade and she was in eighth. She should have been in tenth, but she'd been held back twice. That has to suck. So she was only a grade over us seventh graders, but she seemed like a goddess. She gave the teachers lip, raised hell, skipped school. All the stuff we all wanted to do. Got into fights all the time, too. But she always stood up for "the little kids." That's what she called us. Not just the fifth and sixth graders, but us too. And if an older kid picked on somebody younger, or a bigger kid on someone small, she'd make them sorry. She'd talk to us, too, like we were real people. I guess if you're set back two grades you get used to talking to younger kids. So we all looked up to her.

And she was mysterious. She had a look in her eye like she knew something nobody else did. Not our teachers or parents even.

She was nice to everybody–even some of the teachers–but she didn't have any special friends. The kids her own age, in tenth grade, wanted nothing to do with her. And even though she was friendly with most of the younger students, she was always kinda distant. Except with me.

It's coming up. It's coming up! Ring the bell when we pass the church.

I get off the bus. I have the sense to be a little scared. A girl probably shouldn't be alone here. Broken bottles, broken windows. A man across the street is kicking a little dog and yelling. The dog looks like it's been dead for days. He's drunk. I should jump right back on the bus, but my heart is pounding with anticipation. This place is just how I remember it, too. Her building is still there. Rust-stained brown brick.

Only she never lived there, and I never went there to see her. She never even existed.

That's why I'm here. I told Buffy I had to get it all out of my head, living with Dad and everything. I had to see for myself that it was never real. But she is the real reason. She's the one I can't get out of my head.

I wish I could just hold on to the memory. Believe it's all real like I believe I'm Buffy's sister. But it's not the same. You see, I still have Buffy. But I don't have her. There's the Buffy I remember from my whole life, but there's also a real Buffy, and she remembers me, too. So it's all fake, but who cares? It works. It feels right.

But she's not real. Just like my nice white-painted house is not real. My head knows that but my heart just can't let go. Lately I've been dreaming of her. I almost forgot her for a time, in Sunnydale, but now I can hardly believe that some days went by without any thoughts of her at all.

I miss her so bad. I need to see her again. Say goodbye. But she's not real. So here I am, to make that sink in once and for all. To say goodbye to someone I've never met, and never will.

It all started when she got held back again. And we were classmates! Both in eighth grade. She learned my name. She was nice to me. I got my first big-time crush, and started following her around everywhere. And what's so amazing is, she wanted me around.

She knew I loved her. She knew I was afraid to show it. So she took the risk herself. She told me she loved me first. That's how great she was.

So what exactly did we have in common? Well, our parents were split up... but at least my Mom still loved me. She didn't even know who her father was. We were both misfits, though, not knowing how to deal with life. My Dad didn't care much about me, and her Mom cared even less about her. Most of all, I didn't mind her secret. She told me what everyone guessed: there was a big secret that she was keeping. She didn't tell me what it was, and that was OK. She promised that one day she would tell me.

I've thought so much about that secret, over the last three years, trying to guess what it could have been. Once I imagined that she did know her Dad, and he was a secret agent. Another time I imagined that she had seen some big crime and could never tell or they'd come after her next. Sometimes I thought it had something to do with the woman who picked her up after school some days. The woman seemed nice, a lot nicer than her Mom. It was weird that she never introduced us. So maybe that woman was part of the secret. But I'll never figure it out, and she'll never tell me... 'cause the mystery's all in my head. There is no secret 'cause there is no her.

She wasn't happy. She was just good at keeping the pain inside, same as I was. When she got mad, though, she was scary. She never got mad at me, but she got mad for me sometimes. Like one time my math teacher yelled at me for something the boy behind me did. Everybody knew I was telling the truth, but nobody would tell the teacher. Except her. The teacher told her to sit down and she wouldn't, and she got into one of her famous shouting matches. She got detention. Nothing new for her, but I felt bad.

I guess I still love her.

"Dawnie!" she would shout, just as eager to see me as I was to see her. We'd hang out and watch TV, laugh, make cookies. Or we'd hold each other and not say a thing. If her Mom was home, we'd go up to the roof, my secret girlfriend and I. But her Mom was usually at some bar, or sleeping the night through with somebody she barely knew. And when it was time for me to go home, she'd walk me to the bus stop and wait until I got on. Even after dark, I wasn't afraid with her there. Of course, she was just a few years older than me. She shouldn't have been out at night either.

We didn't hide our pain when we were alone. I'd tell her my troubles and she'd tell me hers, and sometimes we'd just cry 'cause we were sick of pretending to be OK. Her troubles were always a lot worse than mine. Plus, her big secret. Sometimes it seemed to be a good secret. Other times it seemed terrible. Like it was killing her, and she was protecting me from it.

Sometimes I think I hear her voice in a crowd. Her laugh. Every now and then Buffy or one of my friends will mention somebody they used to know with the same first name, and I'll jump.

Now I'm at her building. No lock on the main door, anybody can get in. Inside, every stain and crack is familiar. My breath echoes on the concrete as I climb to the fourth floor. What if whoever really lives there isn't home? Then I'll wait. I have to see inside. I have to see with my own two eyes that she never lived. That she never loved me. Because even I didn't exist.

My heart is pounding and I'm out of breath from the climb. I'm even a little dizzy. Here we go... Number 412! The door knocker is missing. She pulled it off herself, by accident, I remember it clearly. That was a year and a half before I was created.

I still have nightmares about the night I lost her. Something terrible happened. Something to do with her secret, but I don't know what. She came to my house in the middle of the night–the only time she ever came there. She found my window and threw sticks, and eventually I woke up. I knew something was wrong. I ran down to let her in. I didn't even think about being quiet, but I don't think Dad woke up.

There was blood on her shirt and she was crying. Not crying just to let it out, like we always did. Really crying like she couldn't hardly breathe. And she was scared! I never saw her scared before that.

She said she had to go, right then, someplace far away. She didn't know if she'd ever see me again. She told me she loved me. And she kissed me on the mouth. That's the only time we ever kissed. Then she cried, "Goodbye, Dawn" and ran off down the street. I never said "goodbye" back. I never even said anything at all.

That was three years ago. I knew her for less than a school year. I never saw her again. Her Mom wouldn't even open the door when I tried to find out where she was.

That was one of the worst nights of my life. Why do I have to have that memory? Why couldn't the Monks at least give me the memory of saying goodbye back?

After she left, the next year was really bad. I usually get good grades, but not in ninth grade. Eventually I stood up to my Dad–for once–and said I wanted to go live with Mom and Buffy. Getting out of Boston helped me get over her. Or so I thought. Maybe coming back will get me over her for good.

I take a deep breath and knock with my fist, wondering who really lives here. A family with kids, like the one that lives in the house I remember being mine? Maybe a drug dealer or a criminal who will try to hurt me? I'm scared, for sure. But I've come this far. I have to see for myself that she was never here.

Her mother opens the door, looking twenty years older than I remember and smelling of wine. "What the hell do you want?"

Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God. I'm on the floor. Can't breathe. Oh my god! Sit up. It can't be her mother. Get a hold of yourself.

"Dawn? It's Dawn Summers, isn't it?"

She knows my name. How can she know my name!? It's her. My God, it's her mother.

My head is swimming... No way can I stand up. Gross sticky floor. I don't understand. "I have never been to Boston!" I scream.

The woman shrinks back, alarmed. She wants nothing more to do with me. "Why don't you run on home, young lady?"

I shake my head, tears running down my face. This can't be! She never even existed! "I have never been to Boston..." I explain again in a whisper.

She starts to yell, drunkenly. "Look, she's not here! She's been gone for years, and good riddance! I don't know where she went, and I don't give a shit!"

I can barely make my mouth form the question, "...Who?"

And with a sneer she spits out her daughter's name, before slamming the door in my face. The name on my lips each morning when I awaken.

"Faith."

 

There is a follow-up to this story: "I Choose to Believe"

 

I would be grateful if you would give me your comments and rate my stories in my Guestbook, or email me. Reader responses will determine whether I publish more stories, and will help improve them! Thanks for reading! (If you'd like to be notified when I post new stories, let me know.)

If you enjoyed this story, try Witch's Faith. Feeling rejected by Tara and Buffy, Willow finds herself helping Faith get out of prison–and falling in love. When the dark Slayer's plots turn deadly, Willow must betray someone she loves. But who will she choose?

Willow felt very exposed. "Thanks for leaving me my socks." Everything else she had been wearing was now in shreds scattered to the four walls. Faith's passion had been downright scary at times. There had been no question who was the natural predator and who was the willing prey.

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