10. I'm Leaving It Up to You

Scott

It's the last class on the last day of school before Thanksgiving vacation and everybody is packed and nobody is paying attention. We're sitting around the big table in the classroom that isn't the science lab and the professor is trying very hard to get us to care about his government lesson, but everybody's practically jumping out of their seats. I suppose if I were going home this afternoon, I'd be excited too. As it is, I'm not looking forward to nine days of an empty, quiet house. It's odd, since I was so nervous about people moving in. I've become less frightened that I will hurt them accidentally. Mostly, I'll miss Jean. I hope I can sleep the whole night through with Warren out of the room, but if I can't, I don't know what I'll do to pass the time. Maybe drive down to the dam by myself. That's a depressing thought.

"Let's talk about how a bill becomes a law," Professor X says.

Everybody groans. "This is kids' stuff!" Bobby says. "We all know this already."

Professor X continues. "Very well. Let's talk about how the proposed Mutant Registration Act could become a law."

The room falls silent.

"Does it perchance involve Mike Wallace slandering the Mutant community on national television, giving Robert Kelly an hour to spread his message of hate, and twisting your words to suit his agenda?" Hank asks.

The documentary aired on Wednesday night. It did not go well.

"Well, that's a matter of influencing public opinion," the professor says. "Which can, of course, influence policy..."

"How many politicians do you think watched that report?" Warren asks. "I'll bet it influenced their opinion. Why did you let those people in here, anyway?"

"They told me they would be neutral."

"They lied to you."

"I know that now. But it was worth the risk to get our message out. And I do believe, despite all their selective editing, that I managed to get through to some discerning viewers. I've already written a letter to the editor of the New York Times, correcting the many errors in that report."

"Who's going to read it, though?" Warren demands. "Who's going to believe you?"

The professor exhales sharply and raises his voice. "So. Who knows where in the legislative process the Mutant Registration Act is now?"

Hank raises his hand. "It's in the Judiciary Committee at the moment, but Chairman Eastland has said that he wants to get it onto the Senate floor before the winter recess."

Professor X nods approvingly. "And once it reaches the Senate floor —"

"We do everything in our power to stop it or kiss our butts goodbye," Warren says. He's leaning back in his seat — or as far back as his wings will allow — with his arms crossed.

"Do you have anything constructive to say, Mr. Worthington? Because if not, you may leave this class at once and I will tell your parents that you spent this day undoing the excellent record you built up over the past three months."

"Why aren't we marching?" Warren asks. "I mean it. Why aren't we out in the streets? Why aren't we doing anything? Our lives are at stake! People are dying! And these... these adults keep telling me to calm down, that everything will be fine if we only talk quietly to the people in charge and say nice things on TV and beg the world to pretty pretty please not hate us. And it isn't working. It isn't going to work. I almost don't care what we do, just so long as it's something!" He stands up from the table, grabbing his books. "Tell my parents whatever you want."

We all silently watch him storm out of the room. The professor is rubbing his head.

"You've got to admit, he has a point," Wanda says quietly. "We really ought to do something, and we ought to do it now."

"You're here to learn, not to be activists," Professor X says. "First you must learn from history and from others' examples — and learn how to express your opinions dispassionately. Then you may apply those lessons to the real world."

"We don't have time to learn from history," Wanda says. "It's happening right now. What have we got to lose?"

I hear a little groan from two chairs to my left. Jean is wincing and pinching the bridge of her nose.

I lean over and tap her on the shoulder. "Are you okay?" I whisper.

It's only a psychic headache, she says.

You're still getting those?

Not as often as I used to. But sometimes, yeah. I suppose if she can talk with me telepathically, it mustn't be too bad.

"So let's say it makes it to the floor of the House," Wanda says, sounding more excited by the minute. "How do we stop them from passing it? We could research where each of the senators and representatives stand on Mutant rights and focus our attention on calling and sending letters to the ones who appear to be on the fence. Maybe gather signatures for a petition! Maybe we could even take a class trip to Washington to meet with them in person!"

"Yeah!" Bobby says. "And what about the president? He's on our side, right? He could give a speech telling all the congressmen to vote against it! And meet with us when we come to Washington!"

"When we come to Washington?" Professor X asks.

"Professor," Hank says, "perhaps we are counting our chickens before... well, before the eggs have been laid. But if we are to learn how a bill becomes a law, what better way to learn than by stopping this one in its tracks? After all, aren't you a progressive educator? Isn't this part of some educational philosophy or another — learning by doing?"

"Are you referring to experiential education?"

"Sure, why not?"

Another groan from Jean. She's leaning over the table now, her face almost touching her open notebook. This time, everyone notices.

"Jean, what's wrong?" Wanda asks.

"I... oh no..." She starts crying. "I'm sorry, it's just... more and more people... finding out... I can't... I can't shut them out, their thoughts, their sadness, I can't... oh no... oh Lord..."

Wanda rubs her back. "You should lie down, take an aspirin, some water..."

"What's going on?" Bobby asks. "What is she talking about?"

I see the color drain from the professor's face.

"The president's been shot," Jean whimpers.

Class is cancelled. We pile into the billiard room, where the only TV in the house is. We've temporarily suspended our hatred of CBS to watch them cover the story, since NBC and ABC are still showing their regular programming. Just about every single person in the school huddles close to that set, glued to the screen. Only Jean isn't there; she's resting in her dorm room. She's probably hearing the news anyway, filtered through the thoughts of a hundred different neighbors whether she wants to hear it or not.

We've pulled over all the chairs in the room, but it still isn't enough. Mr. Eisenhardt is on the couch surrounded by his children, clutching their hands with a desperation I've never seen in him. Jason and Warren are sitting on the billiard table behind the couch, Warren's earlier explosion completely forgotten. Morty and Bobby are lying on the floor, their faces dangerously close to the screen. And everyone is crying at least a little, except for Miss Adler and Miss Daucourt, who seem oddly calm. The phone is ringing off the hook — parents calling, saying they're coming to pick their kids up early.

"Who would do this?" Lorna asks.

"I don't know," Professor X says.

"It has to be the Cubans. Or the Russians," Hank says. "Are we at war now? Are they going to kill anyone else?"

"I don't know," Professor X says.

I walk over to where Miss Adler is sitting and pull her aside. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?" I ask. "That's why you're so calm."

"Yes," she says.

I feel a fury building in me. I keep my voice down to a whisper, to not alert anyone else. But I almost spit the words out. "Then why in God's name didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you stop it? You could have stopped this."

"No. I couldn't." Miss Adler puts a hand on each of my shoulders. "I was young and idealistic once too, you know. When I started getting my visions, of course I told people. Of course I tried to stop them from coming true. But you know what? They all did. What I see will happen. We all have a destiny, Scott. Jack Kennedy's destiny was to get shot to death in Dallas, Texas. It was his destiny all the way from the day he was born to the moment he died."

"He hasn't died yet," I tell her. "He's in the hospital. They're... the doctors are..."

Miss Adler nods to the TV.

"The priests... who were with Kennedy," Walter Cronkite stammers, "the two priests who were with Kennedy say that he is dead of his bullet wounds. That seems to be about as close to official as we can get at this time."

Sobs fill the room. I feel strangely numb. I think about how appallingly easy it is to kill a person. We're all so fragile. Even the president, with all his Secret Service agents and all his protection, can be killed in his own country. We're all destined to die somehow, like Miss Adler said, and I'm not even sad about it. I just idly wonder how I'm destined to die. I can't cry at all, and it's so odd. Normally I feel sad and anxious a lot of the time, and I don't know what to do. But for some reason, when everybody else is too upset to function, I start to feel calm and everything is clear and I see a path in front of me. It's like that now. I know what to do.

Somebody's got to tell Jean.

I walk upstairs to her room. The door is open, but the light is off and the blinds are drawn and she's lying in bed with her face to the wall.

"Jean? Are you awake?"

"Yes," she says, her voice thick with tears.

"He's dead."

"I know."

I've never been in her room before, but I feel like I should come in now. I sit down on the edge of her bed. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know," she says. She sits up in bed and wipes her eyes. "I'm feeling too much of everyone else's shock and sadness to know how I feel. It could be worse, I guess. There's a lot of Republicans around here." She laughs. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm pathetic."

"You aren't pathetic."

"I keep collapsing. I can't handle my gift. I'm weak. Everybody feels sorry for me."

"You're not weak. You're just the opposite — you're powerful. You're so powerful, you can't control all the power you've got. None of us can. I certainly can't. That's why we're all here."

She nods, and is quiet for a minute. "Scott... I'm so tired. What do you think of me really?"

My throat tightens. "What?"

"Be honest: do you like me or do you only pity me? Because sometimes you're so nice to me and, and you drive me out to the dam and we talk all night and it's wonderful, but then in the daytime you avoid me. You're always avoiding me and I'd sort of thought that we both liked our little insomnia club, but I've noticed that you only seem to spend time with me when I'm weak, when I need help. And that's very nice of you, but if you're just helping out the crazy girl and you don't like me at all, I'd like for you to tell me so I know to stop wasting your time."

I could tell her that I like her so much I don't know whether to embrace her or run screaming from the room, but the impulse to run almost always wins. I could tell her that I live for our nights on the dam, that I don't know how I'll make it an entire week without her, that sometimes I hug my pillow pretending it's her. I could tell her that I'm terrified of her, of what she makes me feel, of what I could do to her if I lost control. I could tell her that I lose control just being around her, seeing her face, and that scares me more than anything.

But I don't tell her any of those things. Instead I rub the back of my neck and look at her pillow where a few strands of red hair are still stuck to the indentation her head left and I stammer, "No, no, it isn't like that at all. I do like you. You're quite a nice girl, who wouldn't like you? I... I consider you my best friend, and I want to keep being your friend, and I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but... but you really are very nice."

Why do I ever say anything at all? I manage to lift my eyes to meet hers, sure that I've just made her feel worse. To my shock, she's smiling and gazing at me with wide, shining eyes. She wraps her arms around me and presses her lips against mine. I'm dizzy with confusion and happiness, and somewhere in my mind I hear her say: Telepath, remember? I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her skin, feeling the softness of her hair. I've thought about this moment so many times, I almost don't believe it's real.

"Get out of my daughter's bed," I hear a woman bark.

My head snaps back. Jean's mother is standing in the doorway in her coat and hat, and she's staring at us with horror in her red-rimmed eyes. I rip myself apart from Jean and back away into the farthest corner of the room. For the record, I wasn't in her bed; I was on her bed. That's a big difference. That should mean something, shouldn't it?

"Jean, get your things. We're going home."

Her suitcase is already packed and waiting by the door. Jean jumps out of bed, throws her shoes and coat on, and takes one look back at me.

"Jean," her mother says, "it's time to go."

"Goodbye, Scott," she says, and picks up her suitcase and follows her mother out the door.

I watch them walk to their car from the window. They're having an argument, but I can't hear most of the words. I hear Mrs. Grey say "St. James Killer," and then Jean says something, and then her mother says something else. I hear her say "St. James Killer" again.

"HIS. NAME. IS. SCOTT," Jean shouts. I hear it through the window and in my mind. The car starts to shake and rise into the air. Not so much, just a few inches off the ground. Jean and her mother both watch it in shock, and within a few seconds it falls again. Did that happen? Did Jean do that? They both seem shaken. Her mother quickly grabs Jean's suitcase and stuffs it into the trunk. They get in the car and I can't hear anything after that. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch them drive away until their car disappears into the trees.