At twelve, Bobby Drake had only begun to consider the direction his life might take, and whether he could escape the dead-end accountant's job that his father had held with Pennsylvania Power and Light for almost fifteen years. He was a bright boy, but academically lazy because the things he valued most - friendship and enjoyment of life - didn't combine to produce ambition. Thus, he was thought slightly below average intellectually, when in truth, he scored a little above. Had he been spared the X-gene, he would have become popular in high school for his good-natured humor and good looks, and a very real kindness of spirit. In college, he'd have joined a fraternity and taken a degree in business, then have married a nice girl and moved to a town a little bigger than the one in which he'd grown up, saved for a house in the suburbs, an SUV, and a dog. He'd have brought his wife roses on Valentine's Day, played ball with his son, and grilled out on Saturdays, laughing with friends over a few beers and a ballgame. And he would have been content with that pedestrian destiny because watching his parents close themselves off in bitter disappointment at having less than their neighbors had convinced him that ambition was a demon that ate the heart from the inside out. Perhaps that made him wiser than most.
But fate had rewarded him with a cryogenic mutation as powerful as Scott Summers' optic blasts. When he eventually learned to master his power, he was able to produce near absolute zero temperatures, freeze-dry any matter containing moisture, and crystalize the water in his own body to create an ice form. But at the outset, all he could do was freeze vaporized water in the air around him. Nonetheless, the extent of his transformational reach was stunning, as the frozen church lawn had demonstrated.
That kind of power was the last thing he would have wanted.
The professor and his weary students didn't make it back to Westchester until the wee hours of Christmas morning, bringing a haunted, bewildered Bobby Drake with them. For the entire trip, he'd sat stone-faced in the plane cabin, staring at nothing. "He is in the shock," Frank had said, sitting beside the boy and chafing his cold, trembling hands. None of them had realized then that cold hands were normal for Bobby.
The professor had been equally dazed after exhausting himself in obscuring the memories of an entire city suburb, a task made doubly difficult by the presence of live-action camera crews. Fortunately, most of the damning events had occurred before the cameras had arrived, and only Warren's descent had needed concealing. Although the cameras may not have had minds to control, the cameramen wielding them had, and they'd been convinced that the tree in their focus was the miraculous angel they were supposed to be filming. Such manipulations were costly, however, both physically and ethically, and Xavier had disliked performing them. Yet something had been necessary. Even Scott's prom manifestation incident hadn't had so high a profile.
When they got back, the students put the professor to bed, then kept watch over a traumatized Bobby. The boy was docile, but refused food and even water. The only thing he would say was, "It's my fault." Curling up in a fetal position on a spare bed, and smearing soot on the sheets, he fell asleep. Hank got back to the mansion around noon, and took up guard, releasing Ororo, but it wasn't until early afternoon that Xavier himself woke and could relate to the rest of them what had occurred at the church before their arrival, information gleaned from Bobby's own memories. The conflagration had not, in fact, been Bobby's fault, but he'd been involved in the incident that had begun it, and three people had died. It was a terrible thing for a twelve-year-old to bear.
As in many protestant churches across the nation, a Christmas Eve Candlelight hymn-sing had been a yearly tradition at Salisbury Trinity Presbyterian, with services beginning at seven in the evening and concluding just after eight with the lighting of small, white, hand-held candles as the congregation warbled "Silent Night." Still singing, they'd exit the sanctuary to ring the great, lighted cedar on the front lawn. Sentimental and picturesque, the service's popularity had outweighed its inherent danger. Fire extinguishers were always kept on hand and the usual warnings given, but Reverend Ricky Douglas had worried for years about the hazard of putting burning candles into the hands of young children, elderly adults, and rowdy teenaged boys.
That Christmas Eve, the worst that could happen did happen.
The adolescent members of the church youth group typically took up the first two lefthand pews, directly before the pulpit. Prominence had made them feel special, and also (usually) had made them behave. But that night, sitting in front had also meant they were among the last to file out, and Rev. Douglas had already been on the lawn. Freed from the watchful supervision of parents or pastor, two of the boys had leaned over the pew in front to wave their candles menacingly near the hair of Marissa Johnston, a pretty but timid seventh grader, and Bobby Drake's new girlfriend. The boys were sophomores in high school and cocky with that; they had called Drake a nancy-boy where Rev. Douglas couldn't hear, and teased Marissa mercilessly. The night of the fire, Drake had finally lost his patience and fought back, shoving away the arm of one boy so that the candle swiped too close to the hair of the boy's own girlfriend, Jenny Schmidt. She'd spent half an hour before service, curling and re-curling her hair, and teasing bangs until they stood three inches straight up - then spraying it all within an inch of its life.
Fire and hairspray had made a deadly combination, and her hair had caught like a torch. Slapping at her head and screaming, she'd plowed past the legs of the girl beside her to escape out into the center aisle . . . away from the fire extinguishers and into the line of others bearing candles, knocking them into each other, or causing them to drop candles on the carpet. One man, thinking to put out the fire on Jenny's head, had yanked down a Christmas banner. Unfortunately, it was made of brightly-dyed rayon, and had gone up in a brilliant flame, causing the would-be rescuer to drop it on a pew and set the padding ablaze while Jenny had blundered away, screaming and waving her arms as fire had traveled down her body, cooking her flesh. Though several people had grabbed fire extinguishers by that point, the crush of frightened parishioners had kept the self-appointed fire fighters from getting to the girl - or the flames - before they were out of control.
Bobby Drake had been no less frightened than the rest, and had fled the church sanctuary hand in hand with Marissa. His whole body had gone cold, despite the heat - cold with terror. Outside, he'd stood shaking amid the crowd as they'd all watched their church burn, and neighbors had come running with impossibly small buckets of water and garden hoses. The sound of fire engines and police had pealed down the streets of Allentown, covering cries from inside the church. Poor Jenny Schmidt had already died, but Mrs. Olivia Hunter had not. Eighty-three-years-old and confined to a walker, she'd been left behind when the rest had evacuated, only her eldest daughter remaining with her in a desperate attempt to pull her to safety despite the handicap of arthritis. It wasn't until the sirens had stopped that the people outside could hear the cries of Olivia's daughter Ruth. Then a few brave souls had attempted a rescue, but impossible heat had driven them back until firemen in their flame-resistant gear and had run up to take their place.
Hearing the shouts of the women, and overcome by the horror of having witnessed Jenny's death, Bobby's shaking had grown worse until he'd felt a yanking twist inside, and had closed his eyes. Shouts of surprise had made him open them again almost immediately. The firemen were sliding and falling on an ice-covered sidewalk. Like everyone else, he'd stared around in confusion while the firemen had made it onto the grass, still covered by patches of old snow - but no ice. Yet the few moments of delay had cost them, and they couldn't get far enough into the building to save the women. The church's 1960s-chic wooden architecture had offered too much fuel, and flames had roared heavenward despite jets of pressurized water from the fire hoses. Even a hundred feet away behind yellow police tape, Bobby had felt the heat on his skin. But it hadn't warmed him. Instead, the icy cold had lodged in his very bones until he'd stopped shaking. Frozen stiff. When Marissa had touched him, she'd gasped in shock. "You're an icicle!"
That was when he'd troubled to glance down, and had noticed that the iced sidewalk had stopped at his own feet. Reflected flame had danced in it, hypnotizing him. Ice, ice . . . fire and ice. Primal opposites. He'd closed his eyes and thought about ice. Thought about fire killed by ice.
But his power was new and he couldn't bend it to his will; instead, it had traveled the path of least resistance out towards the December lawn behind him, not the inferno before him. Ice had crept across grass, trees, and the parking lot with its cars while the crowd of watchers had drawn back in shock. Only Bobby, and Marissa with him, had remained at the center. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Marissa had screamed, even as the crowd recovered itself, coming awake like a wild beast, frightened and angry, to fling curses and whatever had come to hand - half-burnt candles and shoes, mostly. The police hadn't helped much. Having no idea how to contain Drake, they'd focused on containing the crowd instead. But if not for the timely arrival of Scott and Warren, Bobby would have been stoned like Stephen in Jerusalem.
After the professor had finished relating the story, he and Hank went to check on the new boy while the other students drifted off to cope, in their own ways, with what they'd heard. None had suffered an easy manifestation experience, and Bobby's had brought back unpleasant memories. Scott Summers had additional matters to ponder, and as he always did his best thinking when his hands were busy, he took himself up to a third-floor closet in search of Jean's Christmas deer. He'd meant to set them up yesterday, but had never gotten around to it. Finding the boxes in a corner, he made four trips, carrying them down and out onto the lawn where she'd had them last year. He meant them as a peace offering, and hoped she'd understand the message. He'd been thinking about what Frank had told him on the flight back: that he'd hurt her feelings. But it would have been worse, he thought, to have seen her again before he was ready. Now, he was ready, and he did want their friendship back. He had things he wanted to discuss with her - what had happened at the frat house, and what had happened at the rescue of the new boy - and she'd always given him good advice. He'd also pondered Frank's assertion that she might be willing to tell him about whatever was wrong in her current relationship. It was time for them to get past the taboo topics of Ted and Clarice.
Jean was expected to return "sometime before dark," and he hoped he could get all the deer in place before she showed up. Fortunately, it wasn't rocket science, or even complex variables, though the cold numbed his fingers so that he kept fumbling the assembly. He alternately swore at the frame deer and sang Christmas carols to himself, his breath white in the frigid air. There was a little snow on the lawn, and more came down in a light dusting as he worked, making lacy doilies on the dirt of the drive.
Here at the dead of winter, the sun was already sitting on the horizon before he was done plugging in the lights. Behind him, he heard a car rumbling down the drive. "In the nick of time," he muttered, raising up to watch Jean's Toyota approach, and - suddenly struck by inspiration - he jogged forward to meet her. Seeing him, she slowed, and grinning to himself as he reached the side of her car, he pretended to trip, slapping the left front fender as if he'd hit it, then fell down moaning on the grass beside the road. As she had a year and a half earlier, she slammed on the breaks and leapt out, yelling, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Are you okay?"
Laughing, he sat up. "Gotcha!"
She pulled off her little white-knit beret to beat him about the head with it, yelling, "You bastard!" which only made him laugh harder, even while trying to shield himself from her fury. Jean Grey possessed an amazing temper, though she rarely permitted it to show. Nice girls didn't get angry. But if startled into expressing herself, she did so with remarkable pugilism. She'd given him bruises before. Now, he just lay back in the faint print of new snow beside the road and fended her off, giggling until she gave up on her anger and laughed with him.
Finally, she helped him up, then pointed to the deer. "Thanks," was all she said.
"You're welcome."
And standing close to her, he noticed two things. First, there was no belly-drop sensation in his gut, and no flustered scattery of his thoughts. She didn't make his blood rush any more. It was a relief. Second, he could look her in the eye now. Always before, he'd had to look up slightly, but he must have grown a final inch without realizing it, and dressed in heavy hiking boots while she wore simple laced shoes, they were the same height.
"I heard there was some excitement last night," she said.
"You did?"
She tapped her head. "Charles contacted me."
If her telepathy had been walled off to protect her, it was still a part of her and the professor could bespeak her more easily than the rest of them, and at greater distances. "Did he tell you the whole story?" he asked.
"He told me what he saw, but he caught only the tail end of the rescue." She grinned abruptly. "Angels on Christmas Eve! Warren likes theatrics."
"That was my idea, actually." He'd blurted it out before he realized that it might sound arrogant, and waved a hand. "I didn't mean - "
"It's okay," she said. "That was your idea?" He nodded. "I'm impressed, Scott."
"Yeah, well, I didn't think about the TV cameras."
"The professor took care of that."
"I know, but I should've thought of it."
She sighed, almost grandly. "In the middle of a crisis, you came up with a really clever way of getting a boy out of danger, and you kick yourself because you didn't think of everything?"
Shoving hands in his pockets, he didn't answer immediately, just stared out over the grounds. Except for an occasional spot of deep green from a pine, all the hedges and trees looked dry and prickly, and a winter-white jackrabbit bounded across the lawn in the dimming light. Snow had begun to come down harder. Her car door was still open, and white flakes landed on the seat, melting rapidly from the blast of the car's heater. "You need to shut your door," he said. She glanced around and kicked it closed with her foot, then turned back to him. She wasn't going to let him change the subject, apparently.
He sighed. "Okay, yeah, it was a crisis, and maybe most people panic so they can't think. But I didn't, Jean. I wasn't nervous at all. It was weird. It was like, all of a sudden, I could think more clearly, not less. I just didn't think to look for the TV cameras, and I should have." Then he gestured to the car again. "Go turn off the engine. I have something I want to talk about." So she did, and they perched on the warm hood of her Toyota as he told her about the incident at the frat house, and the rest of what had happened at the rescue of Bobby. He ended with, "I've never really been in that kind of situation before, a real fight like that. Schoolyard stuff, sure. But never a real fight. I just . . . "
"Didn't expect to be good at it?" she asked, slightly amused.
"I guess."
Jean thought about what he'd told her, and decided that she wasn't surprised. Despite his youth, Scott had always struck her as remarkably solid, and perhaps that was what drew her to him. Jean's world was cerebral. She could drift through a day so preoccupied with a theory or idea or impression that she took little notice of her actual surroundings, and might run into the corners of tables or strike the edges of doors as she exited them, as if she hadn't quite seen them. Sometimes she forgot to eat, or would become so engrossed in what she was reading or doing, that she put off going to the bathroom until she had to run there or she'd have wet her pants. Her body was an inconvenience that trammeled her mind, like jesses on a hawk.
But Scott lived in his body, observing his surroundings in a way she didn't. He never got lost, and had an appreciation for physical sensation that he rarely admitted to. She'd caught him surreptitiously fingering chenille throws or stroking the soft leather couch in the den. But beyond the aesthetic, that body-sense also made him grounded, and common sensical. His brain worked in terms of problems and solutions. If Jean adored science, it was the theories and possibilities that appealed to her. She sought the uncharted frontier, the excitement of what lay over the next hypothetical horizon. But Scott liked his road map from AAA with warnings of construction ahead and rest areas clearly marked. What a funny pair of friends they made. And yet it was his engineer's brain that appealed to her, just as she thought he enjoyed hearing about her theories, even while he was trying to poke friendly holes in her logic.
So now, the revelation that Scott-on-adrenaline had produced a dispassionate strategist didn't particularly surprise her. "You have the right kind of disposition, to be calm in a crisis," she told him. "Even normally, when you're faced with a problem, you break it down into component parts and deal with each individually, instead of being overwhelmed by it. You're good at patterns."
"Hnh," he grunted. "Like a math problem."
"Yeah, exactly. Add to that the fact that you don't tend to panic, and you're not too shy to take charge if you need to, and it makes you the imperturbable type." He laughed at that, and she took off her cap to shake the snow from it. The warmth of the engine beneath them had cooled long ago, and the sun was set now, the day's light all but gone. "It's too cold out here. Let's go in."
Sliding off her hood, he offered a hand to steady her as she got down. It was done easily, not like a boy half in awe of her, and she grinned. It was good to have her friend back.
If Professor Xavier had managed to keep images of Warren off network television, and had calmed the crowd by subtly altering memories of what had occurred, erasing the entire incident hadn't been possible - nor perhaps even desirable. As a result, there was a fresh mutant story in the news during the days after Christmas, made especially appealing by eye-witness accounts that the ice boy had tried to save his burning church, then been carted off by an angel. Although it made a very different tale from the Winnipeg Marauder, reactions weren't all positive, and a few older stories of bat-eared boys and a child who could leap like a toad were resurrected in its wake, stories previously relegated to the tabloids for their apparent absurdity. Now serious newscasters asked if they might have a grain of truth. And one of those older stories trotted out afresh was Scott Summers' manifestation experience. "Laser-eyed boy disrupts senior prom, injures seven." The news program showed images of the structural damage to the gym caused by Scott's power.
"They're not lasers," Clarice snarled at the television from where she sat on the living room floor of her family home in Los Angeles. "They're force blasts. And he wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Not intentionally, anyway," EJ agreed. He was leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. The whole family had come in at the mention of "mutants." It was personal to them, now. "But you gotta admit, he'd be scary if we didn't know him."
"As 1999 approaches," the newscaster continued, "and the end of the millennium is just around the corner, some fear that the appearance of these mutated human beings is a symptom of environmental damage caused by factors ranging from Global Warming to radioactive pollution. But some religious leaders have another explanation . . ."
"It's obviously not natural," said a neatly dressed man on the screen; he wore suit and tie and the cotton-candy hair-style popular among some preachers. "It's a sign of God's displeasure - "
"Oh, give me a break!" said the Reverend Jeremiah Haight, clicking off the TV and dropping the remote on his chair as he stood to stalk off upstairs to his den. His children watched him go, knowing that look and wondering just what he was going to put in his sermon on Sunday, and Violet steeled herself for the damage control she would inevitably need to orchestrate when her husband brought up the controversial, even though she was proud of the fact that she had to do it. Just like his prophetic namesake, Jeremiah had never been a passive man, but she hoped nobody dropped him down any wells, metaphorically speaking. They still had a mortgage on the house.
EJ was grinning. "Go, Dad," he said. "Something tells me I've gotta make a tape for Slimboy."
Like father, like son, Violet thought.
Later that night, she found time to speak to her eldest daughter. She'd been talking to EJ, and to her husband as well, and had observations of her own about Clarice and Scott Summers, and if neither of the men were brave enough to confront Clarice, Violet Haight was made of sterner stuff. "You two are going to face not just one hurdle, but two," she told her daughter.
Clarice had been sitting at the kitchen table, organizing notes for a paper, and now glanced up at her mother, who was drying a colander that couldn't go in the dishwasher. "Mama," she began in the voice of all long-suffering children when their parents broached difficult topics. Then she threw up her hands. "God! You, EJ, Diane, Me'Shell . . . you're all making such a big deal out of it! I think Scott and I are the only ones not worried!"
"And maybe that's why the rest of us are, honey. Relationships don't exist in a vacuum. I didn't just marry your father; I married a future Baptist minister. I got his whole church along with him. I just want to know that you and Scott aren't ignoring parts of this relationship. Scott's one of the nicest young men I've ever met . . ."
"But he's white! And that suddenly matters!" Clarice was near tears.
"Well, yes, he's white. But that wasn't what I was going to say, actually. He's a mutant, and it's starting to look like that'll matter more. People've been fighting for black civil rights for thirty years, and you're not the first black girl to fall for a white boy. But mutants? That's something new, and the battle's just begun."
"Then maybe I can fight it with him."
Amused, Violet shook her head. Like father, like son. And like father, like daughter, too, apparently, but Violet couldn't say she regretted having helped Jeremiah to raise a litter of crusaders. "Maybe you can. But I want to be sure you're picking the battle youwant to fight, not giving up your dreams for his. If you do that, you'll just wind up resenting him someday."
Although presents had been exchanged on Christmas night after supper, whatever surprise the professor had planned for his students had been put on hold as he turned his attention to settling in Bobby Drake. The boy's parents hadn't wanted him to come home, but also weren't sure if they wanted him at Westchester, either. So for three days, the professor divided his time between trips to Allentown and private counseling sessions with Bobby. He even invited Bobby's parents to visit the school and gave them a tour, albeit a tour that didn't include the sub-basement. They met the other students over dinner, as well as some of the live-in staff such as Moira the maid, and Valeria, Frank's mother. On their best behavior, everyone struggled to reassure the Drakes that being a mutant wasn't a curse, and their son hadn't become a monster. In fact, they were all so absorbed in quelling fears about mutancy that they failed to consider the possibility of other forms of bigotry.
"They are staring at me," Ororo whispered to Scott, as the two of them went into the kitchen to fetch coffee after dinner, and brandy for the professor and Bobby's father.
Scott was amused. "Well, how many black chicks with white hair have they seen, Ro?"
Jaw clenched, she shook her head as she fetched down teacups so that Valeria could pour the coffee. "You do not understand. They are staring at Frank and me. I have seen it before. Not in the city, but here in Westchester, I have seen it."
"So? People stare at Clarie and me, too. It doesn't necessarily mean anything. Sometimes they're just curious."
Turning to face him, she shook her head again. "This is not curiosity. You truly do not see it, do you?"
"See what?"
"The how. Notice how they look at us, Scott. That is not curiosity."
"They are not liking it," Valeria agreed. "Small minds. I have spoken at them, earlier, about how I felt, after Francesco manifested. Charles asked it of me." She sniffed. "I do not like them."
Having found the brandy, Scott poured two shots each into brandy snifters, and then downed half a shot himself. Ororo rolled her eyes but he ignored her. What she'd said bothered him because he hadn't noticed while Valeria had, and he suddenly wondered what else he'd failed to see. He was reminded of the frat party. It was three days until 1999, yet even in Berkeley, racism still hid under the porch. "Even if they don't like it, Ro, what can they do? Ignore them."
"They make me nervous."
"They're not going to do anything to you," Scott said, picking up the snifters. "You could blow them all the way to Timbuktu if they tried."
But after the two of them had returned, he did watch, and he did see what she meant, and after the professor had released them for the evening, he went down to the gym to take out his frustrations by practicing kata. Jean followed an hour later with a bottle of water that she offered to him without comment. "You looked upset, when you left the dining room," she said.
By that point, he'd nearly exhausted himself and he took the water, drinking half of it at once. Then he undid the belt on his gi so that it hung open to let heat escape and wiped the sweat off his face with a towel. Sitting down on one of the weight machines, he pressed the bottle to his forehead. "The Drakes were giving Ro and Frank the 'look' - you know the one: the 'we don't approve but we're not going to say anything in polite company' look. Fuck. Can't people get over the black-white thing?"
"Small minds," Jean said.
Scott snorted. "That's the same thing Valeria said. She's older than them, and she doesn't care."
"Not about Ro, no. But if Frank had brought home a nice Gypsy girl instead of a nice Kenyan girl, it might be a different story." Jean grinned. "She thinks Ororo is 'sensible.' Even if she can't cook."
Scott laughed, but Jean had a point. He'd heard Valeria make a few choice remarks concerning the Roma or Albanians, or - for that matter - northern Italians. Grandson of an émigré from Turin, Scott tried not to take offense about the latter.
"Have you and Clarice had trouble?" Jean asked, and Scott started. It was the first time she'd asked him anything directly about his girlfriend, but he'd been thinking just the other day that it was time to put those taboo topics behind them, so he answered.
"Just the frat party. And that wasn't specific. But now I wonder if there's stuff I'm not seeing."
"And it bothers you? The disapproval?"
"Only in general. Because people are stupid."
Jean nodded and they said nothing else for a while. He finished the water and wiped his face again with the towel. Finally, since she'd brought up Clarice first, he gathered his courage and broached the topic of her own relationship. "What about you and Ted?"
Surprised, she glanced over. High gym lights glittered on her dark auburn hair. She'd cut it last spring, and it fell in a sweep to her shoulders and just brushed her chin. "What about us?"
"Warren said you're this close" - he illustrated with forefinger and thumb - "to splitting up."
"Warren is a gossip."
"Yeah, he is. Is he right?"
Dropping her face into her hands, she rubbed at her eyes. "I don't know . . ." Then she raised her face again and looked at him. "Do you really want to hear this?"
"Sure." He nodded once, decisively. "You're my friend. I want to hear."
That won a smile. "Okay. Then, basically, the problem is that Ted's a lot more serious about all this than I am. He's been talking lately about getting an apartment together in the city and I just . . . I'm not ready for that, Scott. I don't think I'll ever be ready." She sighed. "He's not the one. I enjoy his company, and I like him as a person but . . . he's not the one. I'm not in love with him. And he's in love with me. I think."
"Sounds familiar," Scott quipped before really thinking about it. When her face went white, he raised both hands. "Christ, I'm sorry. I'm just kidding. Really. You never led me on."
"Oh, that makes me feel better. You think I led Ted on?"
"I don't know," he replied honestly. "But knowing you, I doubt it. Or you didn't lead him on any more than going out with anybody is leading them on. Dating's a risk. You don't know if it'll work out, or if you're going to wind up caring more than the other person does."
Leaning over, she locked hands between her knees and stared off at a gym wall. "It's funny. Usually you're the one who likes to have all his ducks in a row, and I'm the one who likes an adventure. But not in this. You're a lot braver than I am. You wear your heart on your sleeve."
"Not really." He thought about it a moment, then said, "You want an honest answer? No false modesty?" She looked over, then nodded, so he continued, "It's easy to ask someone out if you're pretty sure they'll say 'yes.' I usually heard 'yes.' But that's not wearing your heart on your sleeve - it's an ego trip. I was pretty arrogant, in high school." He turned the empty water bottle in his hands. "Becoming a mutant - and falling for you - were good for me. I don't take it for granted any more. Even so, you can still make mistakes." He thought about Phoebe. "Maybe this thing with Ted isn't a mistake, exactly, but if he's getting more serious than you want to get, it's time to break up with him. Or you will be leading him on."
"I know, I know. It's just . . . I'm a wimp, Scott. I don't want to hurt him."
"Jean - he knows already. He may not want to admit it to himself, but I'll bet you ten bucks he knows. The longer you put it off, the harder it'll be."
She sighed again, then slipped an arm around his shoulder to pull him sideways and hug him. "You should put up a stand like Lucy on Peanuts. 'Relationship advice, one bottle of water.'" He grinned at that, then hugged her back. Her hair was soft, and holding her sent the echo of a thrill through him, but he suppressed it. He was just missing Clarice.
I believe we have a situation.
It was a mental call from the professor, late at night on the day before New Year's Eve. Only Scott and Hank were awake, the former reading a book in his room and the latter working on something in the lab.
The new boy is up on the roof, considering jumping. Obviously, the logistics of getting me up there with him are problematic, at best. Humor tinged Xavier's mindvoice. I could perhaps address Bobby mentally, but I believe this is a situation that favors face-to-face interaction. And I also believe it time that he got to know the rest of you outside of meals.
Already into jeans and a sweatshirt, Scott headed out of his room for the stairs leading up to the attic loft that Ororo shared with Frank. "Professor," he said aloud, because he preferred to verbalize even if he didn't need to, "I don't know the first thing about suicide intervention!"
I will be right there with you, to guide you. The main thing you must remember is that those who threaten suicide rarely want to die. They simply can't bear to keep living, so you must give them a reason to. Don't be afraid to talk about death, either. The blunt approach is best.
Scott's throat was dry as he reached the top of the stairs and yanked open the stairwell window. It was one of several ways onto the roof, and he used it when he didn't want to disturb Ororo to climb over her balcony. It was very black out, and cold, but fortunately Bobby hadn't gone far across the shingles. He was a small boy with sandy hair just starting to darken with adolescence, and a sweet face, though Scott could make out neither clearly. At the crack of the window opening, Bobby jerked his head around and Scott called, "Hey," because he didn't want to startle the kid into falling when he was there to keep him from jumping.
"What do you want?" the voice might have been belligerent, if it hadn't picked that moment to crack. Scott bit back a laugh. Amusement would not help. He remembered what the professor had said: be direct.
"You thinking about jumping?"
He could tell that his question had caught Drake by surprise, because the boy's head jerked up a little, then his chin jutted out. "Yeah. Maybe. What's it to you?"
Professor? Scott sent, because speaking aloud just now wouldn't be a good idea. Help?
Remember - the direct approach, Scott. Answer his question, and follow your instincts. And don't forget what I told you, when you called me after speaking with EJ last spring. You mustn't be afraid to share your own feelings. And your past experiences.
That's why you sent me up here, isn't it?
A tinge of amusement again. Partly. But you and Henry also happened to be the ones awake.
Oh, just grand. Thanks. To Drake, Scott said, "Well, if you jump, I'll be the one who has to clean up the sidewalk. It's kind of messy, so I'd really rather it if you didn't."
Scott could see the kid wasn't sure if Scott were pulling his leg or not, and at that moment, Hank came swinging up over the roof edge, nearly causing Bobby to tumble off from fright. As quick as a snake, Hank grabbed and steadied him. "As you were, Mister Drake. Now what's this I hear about you wanting to try out non-existent wings? Only Warren is allowed to jump off the roofs around here."
"Go away!" Bobby snarled at both Scott and Hank. "Leave me alone. What do you two care, what I do? What does anybody care?"
"We care," Hank replied.
Bobby pointed at Scott. "All he cares about is cleaning up the damn sidewalk!"
And Scott had to laugh as he inched his way over to sit down beside Bobby while Hank found a spot facing the boy - between him and the roof's edge. "I was kidding," Scott said.
"He has a rather disturbed sense of humor," Hank agreed.
"So why do you want to kill yourself?" Scott asked.
"Maybe because I'm a freak?" the boy screamed. "God, is it so hard to figure out?" Then he added more softly, "And I killed a girl."
"No, you did not," Hank replied, firmly.
"What d'you know about it?"
"The professor told us what happened," Scott explained.
"Those boys were threatening your friend, and you became rightfully protective," Hank said. "In his own recklessness, one set fire to his own girlfriend's hair. He will have to live with that. You, however, are not to blame. It seems to me that you were struggling to put out the fire, even if you could not yet control your power enough to do so."
"So what good is it?" Bobby snapped.
"You learn to control it," Scott said. "And next time, you can make the ice go where you want."
"But I didn't want it in the first place!"
"I didn't want mine, either. I've learned to live with it."
"Yeah? Well, you can like being a freak. I just want to go home and be normal again. But I can't. So what's the point in living?"
Christ, he sounds just like I did, Scott sent privately to the professor. There was no distinct reply in words, only a bubble of mental amusement. How did you put up with me? It's pathetic!
Don't react to his words, Scott; react to the pain. You do remember how that felt?
He did. He remembered dreams broken into a hundred irreparable pieces, or so he'd thought at the time. Some still were irreparable, but he had new dreams. "Y'know," he said, "I thought about killing myself, too, after I got my power. I wrecked my high school gymnasium - on prom night, no less - and hurt people. I didn't kill anyone, but I could have, and it would have been my fault. I was a month away from graduation, and everything just came apart. I figured I'd never go to college, never have a normal life, never have a girlfriend, or sex, again." He nudged Drake, who laughed with embarrassment.
"I can't control my power, Bobby. That's why I wear these." He touched his glasses. "Or at least, I can't turn my power on and off, like you can. When it first manifested, I thought I had only two options: tear my eyes out, or commit suicide. The first didn't exactly appeal because I'd have had to do it myself or I'd have blasted a hole through any doctor who did it for me, and I'm not big on long-term pain." He grinned, but this time, Drake didn't. Neither did Hank, who'd never heard this story. He listened with a quiet, thoughtful expression. "I might have tried to live with a blindfold, but figured I'd slip up eventually, so dying seemed like my only real option. I went into my parent's bedroom and got one of my dad's guns. I knew where they were, and I could load it by feel. So I took it back to my room and sat there on the bed for about three hours, trying to work up the courage to pull the trigger. I think I stuck the thing in my mouth about twenty times. Gunmetal tastes pretty bad, y'know." He could make light of it now, but he remembered exactly how his hands had shaken and how he'd begun to sweat anew every time he'd felt cold metal on his tongue. "But in the end, I couldn't do it."
"Why not?" Drake asked, morbidly fascinated.
"Because I didn't know who'd find me. I wanted to blow my head off, and I didn't - and I didn't want anybody in my family to have to clean up the mess, either. So I took out the ammo and hid the gun. I figured I could always do it later. But my dad found it, and that ended that."
It was one of those acts for which Scott wasn't sure if he loved his father, or hated him, but when Chris Summers had discovered that one of his weapons was missing, it had taken him less than a minute to draw the correct conclusion, because he'd known exactly what he would have done in his son's shoes. He'd turned Scott's bedroom upside down until he'd found the gun, then had said only, "It's a coward's way," and had taken all the guns and locked them in a chest, then hidden the knives and razor blades and medicines as well, just to be safe.
"I might have found another way to do it, but two days later, the professor showed up at our house and offered me a third choice. It wasn't what I'd planned for my life, but it was better than dying, so here I am. And you know what? All those things I thought I'd never do? I've done them all. Well, all but the normal life. It's mostly normal, but I still have to sleep in goggles."
"You've done all of it? Even the . . . you know. That?"
"Sex? Yeah, even that."
"With who?"
"Hey! A gentleman doesn't tell." And he punched the boy's arm in friendly fashion.
"You are too young," Hank added, "to make irreversible decisions about life and death before exploring all possibilities for your future."
They both watched Bobby Drake consider that. The cold was starting to sink in. Bobby, of course, didn't feel it, and Hank liked cool weather, but Scott preferred California sun. "How long have you been a mutant?" Bobby asked Scott finally.
"I've been a mutant all my life. So have you. But my power only showed up two and a half years ago."
"And you?" Bobby asked Hank. "How long for you?"
"I was born manifesting my mutation, Robert. At the time, doctors called it a mild congenital deformity, though in my case, it aided my physical abilities, rather than impeded them, and my parents raised me to regard it as a blessing, not a curse. I played sports, took piano lessons, and my father taught me how to use every mechanical tool in his shed. It's hard to say if my mutation also includes my mental facility, but in any case, I was set to graduate high school at fifteen when Professor Xavier learned about me and came to speak with my parents. That was the first time we heard the term 'mutant' and 'X-gene.' With the professor's support and assistance, I went on to college normally - or as normally as one can at fifteen - and later helped Charles to set up his school here. Thus, my tale is less dramatic than yours or Scott's, and I never truly considered taking my own life. But there was also never a time when I could claim to be 'normal,' or didn't hear 'monkey boy' applied to me behind my back. My mother once told me that few true blessings come without two edges."
Resting his chin on his drawn-up knees, Bobby didn't reply. But he no longer seemed so angry. How are we doing, professor? Scott sent.
Excellently. But remember that these feelings will come and go. We are hardly out of the woods for good. Ask him to give you a promise.
Like the one you made me give you? Scott was amused.
Precisely. And the mental touch faded away.
"Look," Scott said aloud, and Bobby glanced up at him. "Neither Hank nor I can tell you what to do with your life. It's your life. All we can do is tell you how it's been for us, and maybe there are some options you haven't considered. They won't be the same ones you had, but it's not the end of the world. At least, it wasn't for us. Still, it's you who has to choose."
Bobby nodded cautiously, sensing that he wasn't going to get off this easily.
"But make me a promise, okay? If you decide you're going to do it, you come talk to me first, tell me when and how. Jumping off the roof isn't the way to go. I was joking earlier, about the sidewalk. There isn't one down there. You'd just fall in the bushes and wind up in Hank's infirmary. It's not really high enough to kill you unless you were to land just right."
Caution had shifted to confusion. Scott doubted that the boy had expected to get advice on what would and wouldn't work. But this way, he realized Scott was taking him seriously, and that was Scott's real point. "Okay," he agreed.
"So you promise you'll come talk to me first?"
"I promise."
"Shake on it." Scott offered a hand, and Bobby took it.
"What do you think of them?" Ororo asked Frank from where she stood at the french doors to her loft's balcony. As always, when alone, they spoke French; and just now, she was looking down into the yard below. Scott, Warren and Jean were on the basketball court, playing what looked like three-way one-on-one. She couldn't tell who was winning, but would have bet on Scott.
"Think what of whom?" Frank said. He was lounging on the bed, studying for the SAT and drinking a coffee.
"Of Jean and Scott, cretín!"
Frank shrugged by way of reply, and Ro demanded, "What kind of answer is that?"
"What kind do you want?"
"I don't think Scott is over her. Jean, I mean. But he thinks he is. What do you think?"
"Time will tell." Frank turned a page and returned to his reading. Ororo threw a dirty shirt from the laundry bin at him.
The newest door in the sub-basement slid aside, and the professor led his students behind it. What he'd intended to give them for Christmas was being revealed on New Year' Day. Perhaps that was fitting - a new year, a new chapter in their mission here.
Turning his chair, he watched them file in and look about: Hank, Jean, Warren, Frank, Ororo and Scott, bringing up the rear with young Bobby. After the events of two nights prior, the boy had latched onto Scott as a substitute big brother. He'd needed a role model desperately, and had begun imitating what Scott did, what he wore, what he ate (which could be a problem), and even how he walked.
"It looks like a locker room," Warren said now, baffled.
"Pretty high-tech locker room," Scott remarked as he walked along one of the two walls, studying metal cabinets. Finding one with his own name on it, he pulled open the glass door and withdrew a dark sweatshirt stored inside. It had a small X stitched on the breast. Next, he lifted out a thin, kevlar vest made along the lines of a police flak-jacket. On the back, in place of a name, was a large white X inside a circle. Laughing, Scott held it up. "It looks like a big target, professor. 'Please shoot me!'"
The students all laughed, and Xavier smiled. "I admit, that thought hadn't occurred to me," he said. The others had gone to find their own lockers, though Bobby looked for his in vain. "This was built before you arrived," Xavier told him. He hated to leave the boy out, but, "You aren't yet ready for this stage of training, Bobby. When you are older, you will be able to join them."
The professor could sense puzzlement in the others. He'd been enjoying their anticipation over these past months, and their attempts to ferret out what he and Reed had been up to. Now, they were trying to hide their disappointment, and he caught more than one stray thought of, This is it? A new locker room and some workout clothes is all they've been hiding?
When he thought they'd waited long enough, and were winding down in their exploration of the contents of their new lockers, he triggered a button on the remote in his hand, and a light went on above a door hidden in the recess on one side of the hallway. The flashing red light caught their eyes - a circle with a bar through it. Then it switched to a steady white X. He'd instructed Reed to be certain that the wait/ready light was more distinctive than going red to green, for Scott's sake. Curious, his students had all gathered around the door, and when the X appeared, the door opened to reveal the heart of his surprise.
He heard soft "Wow"s as they moved through the short corridor into the room beyond, their faces a mix of awe and mild confusion as they studied the huge, round room with its soaring metal walls and lighted glass insets. Slowly, they filed out onto the circled X set in floor's center.
"What is this place?" Warren asked.
"It's an automated training center," Xavier told them, "but Dr. Richards jokingly referred to it as his 'danger room.'" Then he pointed to a high, lighted alcove like a stadium box with a reinforced glass viewing port, set above the door through which they'd entered. "That is the control center. You reach it by stairs, or an elevator in my case, located back in the entry corridor. Most of the room's more interesting, and more dangerous, features are programmed from there, and the glass can absorb nearly any blow except Scott's eye-blasts at full power."
"Impressive," Hank muttered, a gleam of appreciative envy in his eye that Xavier found amusing. Hank and Reed were good for each other, he thought. Reed was someone to whom Hank had to look up intellectually, and Hank could follow even Reed's more esoteric ideas.
"Dr. Richards left you the design blueprints, Hank. He may have created the center, but I fear most of the upkeep will fall to you, with Scott to assist."
Henry appeared positively ecstatic, and Scott said, "Man, I want to see the specs for this place."
"So what does it do, professor?" Ororo asked. She was always the one who cut to the chase.
Smiling, Xavier held up the remote in his hand. "As I said, the more interesting, and more dangerous features can be programmed only from above, but Dr. Richards did produce several of these remote controls, by which other features of the room can be turned on or off, or an entire program halted in an emergency. The room will also respond to verbal "Halt" or "Cease" commands - including those given in Italian or Bantu." That got a laugh. They'd all heard Frank or Ororo lose their English under pressure.
Xavier pressed a button, and the room slowly began to rotate. "Whoa . . ." Warren said, wings flexing automatically as the rest put out hands to balance themselves. "It's a Merry-Go-Round!" Jean laughed.
Xavier double-checked to be certain that he occupied one of the "safe spots," then pressed yet another button, and portions of the flooring began to rise and fall in irregular patterns, even while it continued to spin at a slowly increasing speed. His students scrambled to keep their feet on the morphing surface. They were all laughing now, enjoying the game, and even Warren stayed down to play along. "I'm going to get dizzy!" Scott shouted, as Ororo asked, "Is this all it does?"
"Oh, no," Xavier replied. "Dr. Richards did not dub it his danger room for nothing. Imagine this, while being fired at by various kinds of weaponry. The safe mode uses only paint, but there are options for soft rubber bullets, dull-edged projectiles, and lasers that will give a sting."
"What about me?" Warren called, finally launching into the air to hover. "Get me from up here."
Smiling, Xavier pressed a third button, and a net of light appeared three feet above Warren's head. "Navigate that - but touch a beam with body or wings, and you will receive an electric shock. You can cause the beams to shift, as well." And the lights began to weave slowly. "The pattern is randomly generated, so don't expect to memorize it. The same goes for the flooring."
And pressing a final, red button, Xavier watched the lasers disappear and the floor cease spinning and settle back into a simple floor. "That is only a portion of what the room will do, children. Merry Christmas."
Social gears changed for Scott that spring semester. He took a heavy course load, and finally began to tackle a level of math that he'd never seen in high school. Despite an easy fall with Numerical Analysis and Geometry, he'd still not pulled spectacular grades. Among other things, he'd been distracted by a new romance. So when he returned for the spring, he decided it was time to buckle down and apply himself more. Multivariable Calculus, Introduction to Analysis, and Linear Algebra and Differential Equations required it. This was the first time he'd attempted three math courses in a single semester, but if he wished to finish early, he'd decided that he had to do more than take summer courses. To reward himself for this diligence, he signed up for two courses he wanted and that would fulfill gen-ed requirements - an introductory level cultural anthropology, and Science from Antiquity Through Newton. It was a fateful decision.
The previous fall, he and EJ had taken a generic world history course, and had lucked out, getting a professor who emphasized social history and technological developments, rather than kings and things. Scott had fallen in love. Why was bronze rare? Why had the wheel never been developed in the Americas? Why was pyramid architecture so prevalent all over the world (without resorting to theories of space invaders)? How had humans developed farming in the first place? And why did human cultures develop in the ways that they did, given the impact of geography on history? They weren't questions he'd ever thought to ask, but the answers had fascinated him. So that spring, he sought out more of the same, and tended to do all homework for those courses first. Around February, EJ remarked in passing, "Man, I think you're chasing the wrong major," and by the beginning of March, Scott was starting to wonder the same thing. But he was stubborn, and convinced that the professor needed him, so he relegated his interest in the history of technology to the status of a hobby. Yet somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered if mathematicians and closet engineers ever became archaeologists? He even bought himself an Indiana Jones hat that Clarice said looked stupid, but he wore it anyway.
At the same time, Clarice was going through transformations of her own. As an intended astronomy major, she had to take many of the same math courses Scott did, including the calculus sequence. And as with all large classes, she felt insignificant - a speck of dark flotsam in a pale flood. Though she knew perfectly well after a semester that the percentage of blacks at Berkeley was low (despite a student union named after MLK), her roommate was black, and so was most of her personal circle. Scott and Lee were the odd ones out, not her. That meant it was mostly on campus that she was reminded half the student body was Asian, and much of the rest was white or Latino. She was one of a small percentage that constituted "everybody else."
So feeling self-conscious on that first day of her second semester, she was considering a seat in the back row when she noticed two other dark spots amid all the pale, down further on the right-hand side and slightly isolated by empty seats all around them. While she'd always detested segregation, especially of the voluntary variety, she now made her way to where the other two - both girls - were sitting, and asked, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"
They looked up. One was dressed neatly and wore a simple, straightened hairstyle none too different from Clarice's bob, but the other sported tight pants, sculpture on her head, and sculpture on her hands, and Clarice couldn't figure out how the girl could write with nails that long, never-mind how many hours and how many extensions it had taken to design and braid the complicated artwork of her hair.
"Sit down, sit down," said the one with the nails and hair, and patted the chair beside her. "I'm Janice. Call me Jan."
"Nikeesha," said the other, leaning across to smile at Clarice. "Jan's in chemistry and I'm in electrical engineering and computer science."
"I'm Clarice. I'm majoring in astronomy."
"What?" the other two said in unison, but they regarded her less as a black oddity than as mildly insane for tackling such a difficult major, and after class, they asked her to eat lunch with them. There, they met Diane as well, and over rice, the two freshmen were treated to the details of Jan's current project - to start a student organization for black women in the sciences. "There's BGESS," Jan said, ticking off existing groups on her fingers, "for black grad students in sciences and engineering. And there's the Society for Women Engineers. But I want something for black women in all the hard sciences, grads and undergrads both. I read that only one in every twenty one thousand black women receives a Ph.D. in math or the natural sciences. We got a better chance of being struck by lightning, sisters, than of earning a doctorate, unless we support each other."
So, on that January day in a Berkeley campus cafeteria, watching rain slide down the window outside, four girls made a spontaneous pact that they'd see each other through to advanced degrees, come hell or high water - or difficult boyfriends. Two would take masters, Nikeesha and Diane, and two would take doctorates, Jan and Clarice. And all became founding members of BBWS, Black Berkeley Women in the Sciences. Jan, with her boundless energy and forceful personality - not to mention a commanding height of six feet (hair not included) - led the battle, and the rest were her myrmidons. It was an ironic end, Clarice would think years later, for the girl who'd been dubbed an oreo in high school. The fish out of water had finally found her pond, and a fight in which she took a personal interest.
But having a mission came with a price: she lost her first real love. It was a slow disintegration, not marked by catastrophic clashes or screaming fights, but only by pressure from friends, and the demands of different interests. The honeymoon period of their romance was over, and Scott was terribly busy with schoolwork and band practice - not to mention karate - while Clarice was busy with schoolwork and BBWS. But if they saw less of each other than their first semester, they began to talk more about permanence, and that was when their trouble began. Clarice had become even more set on pursuing a career in astrophysics, and if Scott entertained private doubts about his commitment to math, he still felt a need to return to Westchester. "Come with me when I graduate," he'd tell her. "You can finish your degree out East."
"I want to do it here," she'd reply. "I can't just up and leave in the middle. Why can't you stay in California with me?"
"Because I owe the professor," he'd say, and then touch his glasses. "And I owe other kids like me." And angry, he'd get up and leave the room.
"I owe other kids like me, too," she'd call after him.
But sometimes she wavered in her resolve, and talked to her new black sisters about astronomy programs in New York. "And what," Jan would ask sarcastically, "are the national ratings for these universities? Any of them on the verge of synthesizing a new element?" Jan's regular appeals to Berkeley's breakthroughs with the Gas-Filled Separator amused the rest of them. Chemistry wasn't her major; it was her religion. "And you'd throw all that away for a white man? If he really loves you, he'll stay here. We made a pact, remember? No more following the goddamn men around!"
"Jan, Cornell is in New York. It's in Ithaca, not Manhattan, but it's still New York. And it's only one of the most prestigious astronomy and physics programs in the United States."
"So go live in the snow and the New York traffic. But don't come crying to me, girl, when you wind up his little black wife in a white man's big house, and no degree."
Clarice doubted that would happen, but national averages weren't on her side, so Jan's warnings had more of an effect than she wanted them to. "You just don't like him," she'd reply, angrily.
"I like him fine. But he got that white boy entitlement thing going."
"No, he doesn't!"
"Yes, he does."
"He's a mutant!"
"So? He's still a white boy."
EJ, at least, came down in support of Scott when she asked him what he thought. "I know where Janice is coming from," he said. "But she's only part right. Scott is a white boy. I told you that before. We're born like we're born, y'know? But he's got ears, and he listens. And he's got eyes, and they shoot those weird blast things. It's made him see the world a little differently."
Unfortunately, and although these conversations weren't conducted in Scott's presence, he was well aware that Clarice's friends had doubts about him, and for the first time, found himself truly uncomfortable when Clarice took him to parties or functions. It wasn't the mild discomfort of an unfamiliar culture, but the very real distress of knowing he wasn't welcome, so he found excuses to avoid anything that included Jan Farmer, even casual lunch, and Clarice was reminded of what EJ had said the previous semester. He might be a brother to EJ, but he wasn't a brother, and if Clarice felt like a raven in the snow in her Berkeley classes, he was a lone white pigeon at black functions, while Jan was a great black hawk. She had a fierce nature, and ate pigeons for supper, even of the mutant variety.
As he had the year before, Scott went home with EJ and Clarice for spring break, and away from the social pressure cooker of Berkeley, the two rediscovered a little of what had drawn them to each other the previous year. And Clarice had a long talk with her mother about Scott and Jan and schools and compromise. "I can't make that decision for you, honey," her mother said. "And neither can your friends at Berkeley - or Scott. It has to be your decision."
"But I love him."
Violet sighed and sipped her coffee. The two of them had played hooky from Sunday School, catching breakfast at a local IHOP in order to get away from the rest of the family, and from Scott as well, who hadn't gone to church. That was another issue between Scott and Clarice, and if it hadn't developed the same downhill force as their conflicting careers, it was one more mark on the "incompatible" side of the tally.
"Love," Violet said now, "isn't the same thing as living with somebody for the next forty years. Do you have any idea how many domestic disputes your father and I have seen between couples who hated each other as much as they loved each other? I'd count more on you and Scott as friends, honey. But it still don't solve the other problems. Or the fact that your girlfriends don't like your boyfriend."
"Jan and Nikeesha say they do like him."
"Baloney. That Jan's got man issues," Violet replied with a smile. "Even so, she's a barometer of what you're going to face. It's racism's baby, that kind of doubt. She don't trust him, and she's got good reason. I think your Jan's a little overprotective, even if she means well. But you still have to decide if you love Scott enough to give up part of what you want in order to follow what he wants. If you transfer to Cornell, he'd drive to Ithaca to see you, and be as proud as punch to do it. But he got a mission of his own, honey. He wants to teach mutant kids. You want to play with telescopes and show black girls they can do math. But being a couple's about more than two people living under the same roof, or in the same state. You each got your own interests and goals - it's a bad thing if you don't - but you got to have a mission together, too, even if it's just to raise healthy, happy kids. The best marriages are the ones where the couple's got a mission." She eyed her daughter. "Do you and Scott have one, Clarie? And is it the same?"
Clarice couldn't answer. And for the next two weeks, she struggled with what her mother had asked her, talking Scott's ear off about goals and missions until, in frustration, he asked her where it all was coming from. "I just need to know who we are as a 'we,'" she said. Baffled by that, he was unable to reply, just as Clarice had been unable to answer her mother. And subconsciously, he recognized the shadow of the end behind his silence.
He'd feared it since spring break. Time away from school had given them a moratorium, but not a stay of execution, and he'd begun to suffer from chronic insomnia and an upset stomach, not just his ever-present headaches. He was being eaten away inside by a cancer of dread. Once, he and Clarice had spent their evenings talking about science and books, philosophy and schoolwork. Now, they spent them alternatively quarreling, or in frenzied fucking to make up. Sex seemed to be the only thing they didn't disagree about. He couldn't concentrate when he needed to most, and his grades slumped. Sometimes he cried himself to sleep, as much from school pressure as from the despondency of a failing romance. She cried herself to sleep most nights, or stayed up too late, talking to Diane and eating doughnuts.
EJ observed it all with the same kind of horror that one felt upon watching a car spin out of control and head directly for another. And he couldn't save them. It was what he'd feared would happen from the beginning, if not in the way he'd feared. Scott wasn't savaging Clarice. She was savaging him with all the innocence of a young tiger shredding the arm of its handler. Scott wasn't what she needed, but he'd been close enough to seem like it, and now she was asking him for what he couldn't give, and he was balking.
"If this doesn't resolve itself soon," Diane said to EJ one evening, "they're both going to flunk their finals."
They were eating dinner at EJ's apartment while Scott and Clarice were out - separately - on their own business. EJ set down plates of stir-fry on the dining table and then took the seat beside hers. "I know. She's breaking his heart."
"Well he's breaking hers!"
"That too," EJ agreed. "She don't want to let him go, and he don't want to let her go. That don't mean what they got is good anymore." Then he added bitterly, "This is all Janice's fault."
"It is not."
"Shit, to listen to you two, you'd think that woman walked on water! She ain't Peter, DeeDee. She's a goddamn lioness and she scares the pants off me, never mind poor Slimboy. She's filled you and Clarie's head with all kinds of crap. Some of it's good. Some ain't. But she got a thing against my brother, and that bugs me."
"I know," Diane replied quietly, and they ate in silence for a while. Finally, Diane said, "Scott needs to break up with Clarice."
EJ shook his head. "He won't do it. He's like a freakin' terrier with a rag. I think he's a little afraid, too, that he'll look like the bad guy if he does. It'll have to be Clarie to do it."
Diane nodded and EJ knew it would be taken care of. People underestimated Diane because they assumed that one had to be loud and forceful to get matters accomplished, but Diane was an architect, and saw the weak points and strengths in structures. She knew just where to knock out the struts.
Three days later, on a Friday evening, Clarice asked EJ to vacate the apartment for an hour, so she could talk to Scott, and when EJ came back, he found Scott sitting on the bathroom floor, glasses off and crying so hard his face was swollen and he was half sick. "It's over," he told EJ, when he heard his friend's footsteps stop in the doorway. "Two months ago, I thought I was going to be your brother-in-law; now it's all blown to hell. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt her."
"I'd say you both got beat-up about evenly here." And EJ ran cold water onto a washcloth, squatting down to give it to Scott, so he could wipe his face. "You might not wind up my brother-in-law, but you're still my brother. Come on, Slim. Lets go get falling-down drunk."
Notes: Regarding Scott and Jean's relative heights, I've used the actors, not the comic; Marsden is shorter (by half an inch) than Janssen. The Danger Room is based on set descriptions when it was to have been part of X2. BBWS is not a real Berkeley student organization but the statistic that Jan quotes comes from a publication of the National Children's Defense Fund. The paper announcing the discovery of element #118 at Berkeley has since been retracted, but it would have been important news in 1999.
