5.
The morning of his first official day at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, Jean-Paul did his best to suppress any emotion whatsoever.
He didn't want to brood everything he had lost. St. Tom's had been his school since he started in the Son Center in the third grade. When he entered seventh grade, his class had moved on the Father Building, which held the middle school grades. If he had stayed to go on to sophomore year, he would've spent that time in the high school division, the Holy Spirit Hall.
Before modeling had overtaken his life and metaphorically destroyed whatever soul he might have once possessed, Jean-Paul had been a talented athlete on various sports teams, top of his class in academics, and an all-around well-known and popular figure on the campus with many friends. A zest for life ruled his personality; each day had been another opportunity to add to his various achievements and show others how superior he was to them.
All of that was just memories now.
The Xavier Institute for mutants didn't seem too terrible; his roommate was a German named Kurt who was several years older than him and very friendly and helpful despite his blue, furry body and vaguely demonic facial features. However, Jean-Paul wanted nothing else but to feel miserable and brood over his current situation, and was content to mope about his dorm room for the evening.
He deliberately arrived late to breakfast to avoid gawking students, entering the dining hall only to snatch a bagel, barely managing to swallow the last bite before the bell. The taste of the breakfast pastry felt odd and foreign in his mouth, and he only convinced himself to eat the entire thing by rationalizing that he required energy for his fist day.
As he strode into his first class of the day and spoke to Ms. Munroe, he felt as if another person was controlling his actions, speaking and moving for him. Like a robot with a fixed programming, he did was expected of him. There was a quiz in class that day, and which he was not obligated to do, because it was his first day. But what the hell, why not? It wasn't as if he had anything else to do.
When he accepted the quiz that Ms. Munroe handed out to class, Jean-Paul's lip curled in disgust. The content of the quiz was battles of the Civil War, and the essay questions were as basic as what he would expect to see in a public school exam.
"How did Pickett's Charge effect the Battle of Gettysburg?" "Why was the Third Battle of Chattanooga the turning of the Civil War?" Were these questions supposed to be challenging in any sort of way? Jean-Paul remembered most of the details from his Civil War report for school he had written the previous spring; this quiz incredibly simplistic for a supposed test of students' abilities.
But as Jean-Paul surrepptiously glanced around at his classmates, he noticed that most of them seemed to find the quiz difficult. An Asian-American girl wearing a canary yellow jacket was tapping her pen against the desk, as if she was trying to remember the answers, while the boy sitting beside him had yet to start writing.
Jean-Paul sneered. Xavier Institute for High Learning of what, precisely? Basket-weaving? This would have been an effortless quiz at St. Tom's, and though the Xavier Institute was merely a haven for mutants disguised as a school for the gifted, surely the students were somewhat intelligent and could retain basic information. Right?
Jean-Paul had a feeling that if his fellow students were this moronic, then the Xavier Institute held nothing but loneliness and a generally miserable existence for him throughout the duration of his high school career.
The uncomfortable sensation of someone gazing intently at him prickled the back of his neck, and Jean-Paul glanced up to find that the boy sitting next to him was staring in his direction. Or more accurately, at his quiz paper. Jean-Paul realized belatedly that it was Bobby, the future frat boy, whom he had insulted yesterday.
If Jean-Paul had more energy, he would've hissed a scathing insult at Bobby and deliberately provoke him. But he was completely apathetic to actually displaying an interest in any activity, even if it only was irritating some plebeian.
Thus, he only sent a glacial look at Bobby, directly meeting his eyes, flipped over his paper and ensconced himself in his disagreeable plastic chair.
If he had been at St. Tom's, he never would have deigned to settle for only a cold glance and nothing else. He would've sent a clear message to Bobby about his general personality and capability for wrathfulness. But he had to keep cool; he had to maintain his cold demeanor and not allow any of this to affect him too deeply.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and Jean-Paul knew that this was useless, his carefully constructed world was slowly unraveling, exposing him, leaving his open for attack.
He was just a shell, now, Jean-Paul decided, slouching down in his awkward chair. The transition to the Xavier Institute had reduced him to nothing more than a shell of his former self.
Author's Note: This story entails five times Jean-Paul could've spoken to Bobby Drake, and the one time he did.
I've decided to make this an ongoing story that parallels "Speechless", basically telling everything from Jean-Paul's point of view.
Right now, of J.P.'s emotions are kind of understated; he's still shellshocked by everything that's happened. But don't worry, he's going to show some emotion soon. But tell if at any point in the story Jean-Paul looks like a Gary-Stu; that's not how I want to characterize him at all.
Let me know what you think. Reviews and concrit are great.