April 4, 1964

The last of the snow had melted, giving way to clear, cold days and rain that soaked into the earth and sprouted bright green from each branch. Spring came on so quickly. Just like that, everything changed.

"Was it explicitly stated that we may not use the trees across the road?"

"Not in as many words."

"In fewer words?"

"Sure. In zero words, a lot fewer."

Doug Ramsey sighed, but decided he didn't really mind. The woods (woods? Thicket? The tree-rich area on the Xavier Estate… the guy basically owned a park) were pleasant, still dripping off the last drops of an earlier shower and utterly resplendent with the scent of earth.

"Here."

Scott crouched close to the ground.

"Clovers," he observed. "What do you think?"

"I think you didn't actually need me for this," Doug retorted.

"We classify them based on leaves—three-leaf clover, four-leaf."

"I put on a sweater for you," Doug accused. It might not have sounded like much, but one of his arms was in a cast and sling, which made getting dressed really annoying, especially with warm clothes. He was generally considered the second worst off after the attack on the school. Scott, whose ribs were fractured, came in third.

Sean was dead.

It was easier not to think about.

Doug was never quite sure if his classmate was older or younger than he was. Although Scott was fifteen and Doug eighteen, Scott often acted like he was one of the adults. He was given different treatment, too, but that was more to do with his being practically the Professor's son.

The strangest thing, though: every time someone mentioned Scott's age, Doug read more to it than he was told. He had been puzzling over it for the past week, ever since another classmate, Laurie Collins, recounted to him that apparently Scott was older than Alex. It made no sense, because Scott was a high school student and Alex was an adult who worked, swore, and went to community college.

Well… he used to.

"Is Alex…"

Okay?

Well?

Better?

Doug couldn't choose a word.

Scott plucked the clover, then took out his notebook and pressed it carefully to the page. "He'll be okay," he said.

Doug saw the uncertainty in Scott's posture, the way he shifted back. He didn't comment on it.

"Doug, I'd like to ask you something a bit uncomfortable."

"Oh. Okay."

Maybe he had an ulterior motive, after all.

"You see what people mean—what they think. I was just… after everything that's happened, I… do people like me?"

Doug waited, sure there was more. When Scott didn't continue, he said, "Yeah, of course they do."

"But—"

"Scott. People like you and they trust you. Everyone's upset, but no one with you."

"Oh. So, do pine needles count as leaves?" Scott asked.

Doug thought about that. Thanks to his mutation, he understood every word someone said. He did not always understand the intricacies of language… like now.

"I'm not sure. What did Hank say?"

"I didn't ask—he just said leaves."

Doug wasn't sure either way. Instead he said, "You could always bring them as extras. I think there's some bushes over this way."

They were collecting leaves for Scott's spring break assignment. It wouldn't be graded, was more to help him understand the concepts and keep them fresh in his mind. Doug did not have a spring break assignment, not because his grade was significantly higher (although it was) but because another point of the assignment was giving Scott something to do.

Ororo had spring assignments, too. She and Scott would be spending the week at school, while Doug and Laurie went home to their families. Doug wasn't sure who had the better bargain out of that.

Someone else had a very clear opinion.

Back inside the school, Ororo Munroe threw her assignment onto the desk in disgust. "No! I'm not doing it!" On top of everything, the assignment had made a very disappointing flutter down to the desktop. She had thrown it quite hard, but the few sheets of paper and three staples had too little weight and too much resistance to crash.

She scowled at it. "Well, I'm still not."

"Ororo, be reasonable."

"I am reasonable."

Sometimes, Ororo could be their most mature student. She often accepted change easily and took initiative, while the oldest student, Doug, was more passive and Scott, who had shown better leadership qualities, too often looked to the adults for guidance.

She didn't look mature.

Ororo was thirteen or fourteen years old—with only an approximate age, she had chosen a birthday. In two days, they would call her fourteen. She wasn't really sure, though. She looked young, her white hair falling across her eyes and the cheerful pink of her coat competing with a determined scowl.

What she said next made her seem no older: "I don't want to. That's my reason."

Charles Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose. Ever since the attack on the school, the students had struggled. He understood. He didn't fault the others, but Ororo was struggling against him by turning her back on her education. She wouldn't come to his classes, which meant skipping more than half her day.

He supposed he should be glad she had come to speak with him now.

"You need this assignment," Charles reasoned, "or you risk not passing English."

"That doesn't matter to me."

Passing English was the least of Ororo's concerns. She was new to Western education, new to formal education of any kind, and one year was not enough for her to start seeing grades as crucial. She saw them as means of evaluating how well she had adapted, or chose to behave as though she had adapted.

Seeing that this conversation was going nowhere, Charles gave in: "You may go."

This would be a very, very long break.

To be continued!