She returned from school, sneaking in through the back door like always, making sure the coast was clear before dashing upstairs to her room. There was no lock on the bedroom door, but she only had to prop a chair against the knob to solve that problem. She dropped her backpack down and grabbed her sketchbook from her desk. She had a new character idea for her story and some awesome clothes for them to wear. She crawled into the closet, leaving the door open a crack so she could listen for sounds outside. This was her sanctuary until morning.
It's a curious thing being a mutant. Favorable scientists called it evolution. The paranoid majority and unmutated populous called it a disease. Riffa wished that, if it was a disease, they'd just find a cure already. Maybe if they'd found a cure 10 years ago her parents wouldn't be dead. And she wouldn't be stuck in a foster home run by a maniac witch and inhabited by the most incompetent inbreeds around. It sucked.
As Riffa sketched her new character she pondered how in her imaginary worlds full of imaginary people, life was good. They went through problems, otherwise it wouldn't be realistic, but things always worked out in the end. The bad guys were caught and imprisoned, the good guys lived happily ever after. Riffa's worlds were under her benevolent control. Though reality was far from as kind.
Between kids at school and news stories online, Riffa knew that the X-men existed. A group of mutants self-tasked with protecting the world from other mutants that just wanted to watch society burn. She was a skeptic. Maybe they were controlled by the government. There couldn't possibly be mutants favored in a positive light.
Riffa wiggled the pencil she was holding in her left hand as she contemplated whether the boots she was drawing needed a buckle or not. The stump of her right forearm held her sketchbook steady. She wiped away eraser shavings and decided they didn't need buckles. They would be annoying to fasten all the time anyways. This girl was going to have the coolest wardrobe. Someday, Riffa hoped she would have all the clothes she could imagine. Maybe she could even make them!
"Riffa~where are you?"
She held motionless in the closet and listened past her thumping heart for the location of the sound. Her door rattled as the person tried getting in.
"Riffa did you block the door again? Open up~."
It was Thomas. Thomas enjoyed nothing more than making Riffa suffer. It was his favorite form of entertainment. Joining him were usually Marco and Arisa. They were all older than her. Riffa's current prediction was that they would die from a drug overdose on the streets some day, or in a fight; it changed depending on their habits. She heard muttered conversation from behind the bedroom door. Suddenly the chair went clattering across the floor. Marco used his mutation to repel the chair away - again. He must've got his skinny fingers under the door far enough to reach it. The door swung open and banged against the wall. Clomping stolen Nike clad feet trespassed into her space.
"Where is she?" Arisa asked. She heard books get shoved off of her bed. Someone kicked the chair further away. Another person dumped out her pens and pencils from their tin can container. Riffa waited in frozen fear for them to find her. She watched through a crack as Arisa walked up to the closet and put a hand on the knob.
"Where are you, you snot nosed brats?"
The bellow from downstairs made everyone in her room freeze. Arisa pulled her hand away from the knob and the tormentors quickly retreated. Only the sound of the foster mom could cause them to scatter like cockroaches in a beam of light. The only one worse than them was her. Riffa returned to her sketching. Dinner wouldn't be coming tonight. The kids didn't steal enough to peddle off to unsuspecting buyers yesterday. And momma needed her fix. Riffa just hoped she would get drunk and pass out quickly.
"Riffa! Get your butt down here!"
Never mind…
Riffa tucked her sketchbook away in a safe place and scurried downstairs. You didn't make the woman wait. She found her standing in the hallway, hands on her round hips and blue Crock covered foot tapping impatiently. Her heavily shadowed eyes flicked up at Riffa as she descended the stairs. Her frown creased her rapidly wrinkling face. Drugs and alcohol did that to a person. She waved a folded paper in Riffa's face.
"I got a letter from the school. Apparently you're failing math and gym. How do you even fail gym?" she squinted her eyes at Riffa then waved away the girl's reply before she could even make one. "I don't care. Just get your act together. Failing kids looks bad on me. You don't want me to look bad, do you?"
Riffa shook her head no. The woman didn't need her help to do that.
"Then get those grades up! If you don't, then I'm going to take every scrap of paper away from you. Yeah, no more doodling or scribbling for you! You understand?"
"Yes, ma'am." Riffa ducked her head down and stared imaginary holes into the dingy cream colored carpeting.
"Good. Now get out of my sight," she sighed and walked into the living room, plopping onto the saggy couch and turning the tv on. Riffa hurried away to the security of her room. But inside she found an unwelcome sight.
"There you are!" Thomas grinned. He was holding her notebook with her most current story she was working on. Riffa looked down at her notebook then back up at Thomas' face. It betrayed nothing. She watched him carefully, then lunged for her notebook. Thomas put a hand on her shoulder and held the notebook high above them. "Hold it. We need to talk."
She pulled away and glared up at him. He wagged the notebook infront of her face and raised his eyebrows. She knew he could destroy it in an instant if he wanted to. She softened her look and crossed her arms across her chest, looking away from him.
"What do you want?"
"We don't get to eat tonight because someone hasn't been pulling their weight lately," he began. "So if you want any food to fill that belly of yours, I suggest you get out there and help us steal some merch. Understand?"
Riffa clenched her jaw and squeezed her hand around her right side. "I don't want to steal," she muttered.
"Do you want to eat?"
She made no reply.
"Come on, Riffa. Your power makes this so much easier. You'll starve if you don't," he argued. He stuck the notebook under her nose. "And it looks like you almost have this thing filled. Do you want it all to disappear in a puff? Because I can arrange that."
Riffa bit her lip. She hated stealing. It wasn't fair. To her or their victims. But the foster mom squandered the government money away on booze and drugs. There wasn't anything left for the six kids that lived at the foster home. Riffa thought about the younger kids, Gina and Henry. They were only in grade school. If she didn't do this for herself, she would do it for them.
"Fine. I'll help."
"Good," he tossed her notebook back on her bed. "Let's go."
Riffa pulled on a coat. It was going to be a late night, and the weather was turning toward fall. Arisa and Marco were waiting at the back door. Arisa in her red beanie and black bomber jacket. Marco in a dark green hoodie with his stolen headphones around his neck. They helped muffle the street noise. Thomas led the way.
"Let's try the pawn shop downtown."
They got on the bus from the stop down the block and rode the 12 stops to downtown. Arisa told the computer with a touch that they'd already paid while Riffa kept the driver distracted as the others got on. After getting off, it began to drizzle. Riffa pulled up her hood and stuffed her hand into her jacket. A couple blocks down, they found the pawnshop. Thomas scoped it out while the other three stood around the alley corner. Riffa noticed a cafe across the street, its warm light spilling out onto the darkening sidewalk. A couple with their young daughter were enjoying steaming drinks and sweet pastries. The parents laughed at something the girl said. She felt a familiar pang of longing.
Thomas returned. "The coast is clear. Riffa, you're up."
She took a breath to steady her nerves and cautiously walked into the shop. The overweight man behind the counter looked up when the bell jingled at her entrance. Riffa gave him a meek look.
"What do you want, kid?" he asked gruffly. He had been counting cash and quickly shoved the register shut. He chomped on some gum that had long ago lost its flavor. He was trying to quit smoking. It made him crabby.
"Um, I was wondering if you had any pearl earrings. I'm looking for a gift for my mom." That was the plan. Get him to grab something in his display case in front of him and then strike.
He sighed and slid open the case door. Putting one hand on the counter to steady himself, he ducked down to grab an option for her. Riffa brought out her stump. Her eyes flashed a reddish pink and a hand made of energy formed over the stump. She clamped onto the man's wrist. He froze in place, so long as she maintained contact. The others came in quickly after she did this.
"Just grab a couple of things. We don't want him to notice right away. Only stuff we can sell. Don't get greedy," Thomas instructed the group. He grabbed a lock and melted it off. Inside the glass case was a signed baseball card. Easy to hide in a pocket. Arisa grabbed a Rolex, Marco had listened to it and it seemed to be functioning properly. "Alright. Let's go."
He turned to leave. Once they were out, Riffa would release her victim and scurry away deciding she didn't want what he had to offer. But before Thomas could get to the door, a man walked in. Not just the average Joe. It was Detective Johnson, the very man that had been trying to nab them for months.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. It didn't take him long to recognize Thomas. "Well, well, well, what do we have here? Everyone, stay where you are. You are in big trouble."
"Scatter!" Thomas bellowed.
Thomas shoved past the detective, who was suddenly shocked by a burn on his leg. Marco and Arisa ran out the back and into the alley. Riffa released her captive and dashed past the limping detective. She heard him call for backup on the radio before she was out of earshot. They would all be finding their own way home tonight.
Riffa ran several blocks before she stopped to learn where she was. She looked at the nearest corner street sign and saw that she was a good 45 minute walk away from the foster home. By now it had begun to rain steadily. She would need to get back in a roundabout way to avoid possible patrols.
Ten minutes into her journey, she was walking along a quiet street full of now closed businesses. Yoga studios, bakeries, finance offices, the usual middle class stuff. She kicked a can she'd found a block back as she walked along. She wasn't entirely eager to get back. Suddenly headlights illuminated her back and cast her shadow before her. She heard the chugging of a older engine and looked back to see an older truck approach. But instead of driving past her, it slowed to a stop beside her. Riffa kept her head down and glanced over at the truck. A man hand rolled the passenger window down.
"Hey, kid. You need a ride?" he asked gruffly, like he didn't really want to offer, but some newfound better nature forced him to. He was a scruffy guy with intense muscles. He looked rough. And his eyes looked both kind and sad. "Look, I'm not a creep. You can walk in the rain if you want. Just offering," he sat back in his seat.
Riffa wasn't nervous. If she needed to, she'd just freeze the truck and get ready to run.
"Fine," she said and put a hand on the metal handle. Before opening the door, she looked up at the man. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. What's your name?"
"Logan."
"Now you're not a stranger," she opened the door and jumped in. After slamming the door shut and pulling the buckle across her, Logan pulled away from the curb and carried on with his drive. This was good. She wouldn't be picked up by a patrol this way.
"What's your name?" he asked, glancing over at her.
"It doesn't matter."
"Well, maybe I don't want to give a ride to a stranger," he countered, using her earlier reasoning against her.
"Fine. It's Riffa," she grumbled.
"Where are you headed?" he asked.
"You can drop me off at the corner of Oak and Clayton."
"Sure thing."
They rode on in silence, the sounds of the wipers and falling rain filling the absence of conversation. At least it would only take ten minutes to get there. Riffa glanced over at the man. He looked rough, like he should be full of scars from being in a gang or something, but there wasn't a scratch on him. Not even a tattoo. His hairy sideburns extended down his face almost to his chin. And his hair came out to odd points from his head.
"Are you a lumberjack, or something?" Riffa asked in a mumble.
"Uh, no."
"You're just all muscle-y and hairy. Like a lumberjack. You just need a flannel shirt."
"I'll keep that in mind," he chuckled. "But I don't typically wear flannel."
Riffa put her right elbow on the arm rest and rest her head on her stump, gazing grumpily out the window. "I'm not giving out fashion advice."
Logan took note of her stump but chose to ignore it. Riffa could always tell when people did that. They tended to ask a personal question to curb their curiosity and get to the subject of her missing hand in a roundabout way.
"So, your parents let you roam outside at night in the rain?"
"No parents. No one to stop me from roaming," she mocked his choice of verb.
"Ah." But he didn't seem uncomfortable. In fact, he seemed to relax more, resting an elbow on the window ledge and driving with his right hand. He turned toward the corner she directed him to. "You know, I work at a school that has a lot of kids living there without parents."
"A boarding school?" Riffa guessed.
"Yep. But it's special."
"Like for "special" kids?" she air quoted the word special.
"Not like that. They're mutant kids."
He let that hang in the air. Riffa was struck by this revelation. A school for mutant kids, some of them orphans. And this rough guy worked there. A trap. Definitely a trap. Did he suspect she was a mutant? Or just disadvantaged? She decided to turn the conversation on him.
"Are you a mutant?"
Logan looked over at her in mild surprise then answered with a sigh, "Yeah."
"What can you do?"
"Make knives that come out of my hands."
Riffa glanced over at his hands with new interest. Knives that came out if his hands? That sounded dangerous. And yet he worked at a school for mutants. Was it a militia school?
"That sounds pretty dangerous. Like, what if you were scratching your stomach and erk!" she acted out scratching her stomach and then getting stabbed in the abdomen, complete with her tongue lolling out to the side and sounds of agony. Logan chuckled at her show.
"Well, my ability to heal almost instantly would help with that."
"Really?" This old guy was getting cooler and cooler by the minute. She looked at her stumped right arm with wonder. What if she had a healing power? Logan noticed this train of thought.
"What happened to your hand anyways?"
But they had reached her corner. Logan pulled over and Riffa put a hand on the door handle ready to dash out. She didn't feel like talking about herself.
"Hey, kid, wait. Mutant or not, here's the number for the school. If you find yourself in a bad situation, we'll help you out."
Riffa took her hand off the handle and snatched the card from him. She glanced at the name and number. 'Professor Xavier's School for the Gifted' it read. She stuffed the card in her pocket and jumped out of the truck.
"Thanks," she said and shut the door with a thud. Logan drove away and she didn't look back.
Back at the foster home, only Thomas had returned. She was sure he'd ran the entire way home. He hated getting wet. It took another hour for Arisa and Marco to come trudging in, soaked to the bone. In the meantime, Kerri had a couple of friends over. They brought thumping music and hard drugs. Riffa stayed far away. Thomas stayed near the younger kids' room. He was always protective over them when Kerri had her friends over. Just in case one of them wandered upstairs. By the time the other two made it home, the company was passed out in the living room.
"What took you guys so long?" Thomas hissed in the hallway. Riffa had been sitting on her bed reading and got up after hearing them talking. She walked up to the doorway and listened cautiously.
"The cops were everywhere, man. And it was raining. We hid for cover at a playground. You wouldn't want this getting wet," Marco dangled the Rolex in the air with a grin. Thomas snatched the watch from him.
"Good job. I've got my card, too. We'll be eating good for weeks!" The three of them rushed off to Thomas' room to hang out. When they passed, Riffa noticed a dark spot on Marco's neck. Apparently he and Arisa did more than just hiding at the playground. Riffa quietly closed her door and replaced the chair in front of the knob. She plopped down on her bed and pulled out the business card in her pocket. She made the silver metallic letters and numbers shine in the dim light of her lamp, then shoved the card under her mattress and returned to reading her book. But she couldn't help but wonder at the back of her mind what a school for mutants would be like. Would it be better, or worse?