Chapter One: Introduction - 9/20/01
It's much easier to admit to yourself that you're a mutant than to admit it to
others. Take me for instance: sitting in class and dipping into the minds of others
has become, oddly enough, as normal as cracking my gum or biting my nails. Of course,
there was, like I guess it is with all people like me, that period where I wouldn't let
myself "succumb" to that urge to see what others were thinking, where I felt guilty and
ashamed whenever the kids at school talked about the latest mutant terrorist attack or the
latest person suspected to be one. And then, like I suppose every other mutant does, I
woke up one morning and found myself sinking inside my sister, flipping through pages and
pages of memories that I never wanted to know, and even though I was kind of grossed out,
I didn't feel guilty or dirty or ashamed. I felt like a mutant, and that was ok.
But, don't rush away yet - this isn't a stupid coming of age story about coming
to terms with my mutantcy or telling my family and friends about it, nobody wants to hear
anything fluffy like that. This is about the hundreds of times when I've sat on my bad and
gazed out the window at the focus of all the kids in Westchester's curiosities - the Xavier
Institute for Higher Learning.
If you've ever lived in a small town, passed through one, read any novel taking place
in one or watched any episode of Scooby Doo, you know that every little town, which is the
classification that Westchester falls under, has one building, or plot of land, or person or
landmark that is the focus of so much speculation and supernatural rumors, that nobody can ever
know what goes on there, or whether the howling of the wind or tapping of tree branches on
the windows or the creaking of the stairs outside your bedroom is just your imagination, or
if it's Boo Radley or the Goat-Man or the Jersey Devil or the Demon Cat creeping through your
house.
Xavier's was like that for us. Except, the huge, brick mansion seemed to live up to all the
stories that circulated our community about it. There always seemed to be some sort of haze
or strange light hovering over it, and sometimes screams and muffled sounds would drift down
the hill into our open windows, and we'd stop to gaze up at the place, which was actually kind
of welcoming for a haunted house. And, on Summer evenings when we'd lay on our yards and watch
fireflies, you could always hear the roar of jet engines in the air above, but you never saw any
lights, and the nearest Air Force Base wasn't for some disgusting amount of miles.
So, yeah, you should be able to imagine the way I couldn't help but laugh out loud when I
found myself slipping into the mind of someone riding in a peerless, black Buick with tinted
windows as it rolled lazily up our street and on through the gates to the School.
*Fin*
*Continued Next Chapter*
It's much easier to admit to yourself that you're a mutant than to admit it to
others. Take me for instance: sitting in class and dipping into the minds of others
has become, oddly enough, as normal as cracking my gum or biting my nails. Of course,
there was, like I guess it is with all people like me, that period where I wouldn't let
myself "succumb" to that urge to see what others were thinking, where I felt guilty and
ashamed whenever the kids at school talked about the latest mutant terrorist attack or the
latest person suspected to be one. And then, like I suppose every other mutant does, I
woke up one morning and found myself sinking inside my sister, flipping through pages and
pages of memories that I never wanted to know, and even though I was kind of grossed out,
I didn't feel guilty or dirty or ashamed. I felt like a mutant, and that was ok.
But, don't rush away yet - this isn't a stupid coming of age story about coming
to terms with my mutantcy or telling my family and friends about it, nobody wants to hear
anything fluffy like that. This is about the hundreds of times when I've sat on my bad and
gazed out the window at the focus of all the kids in Westchester's curiosities - the Xavier
Institute for Higher Learning.
If you've ever lived in a small town, passed through one, read any novel taking place
in one or watched any episode of Scooby Doo, you know that every little town, which is the
classification that Westchester falls under, has one building, or plot of land, or person or
landmark that is the focus of so much speculation and supernatural rumors, that nobody can ever
know what goes on there, or whether the howling of the wind or tapping of tree branches on
the windows or the creaking of the stairs outside your bedroom is just your imagination, or
if it's Boo Radley or the Goat-Man or the Jersey Devil or the Demon Cat creeping through your
house.
Xavier's was like that for us. Except, the huge, brick mansion seemed to live up to all the
stories that circulated our community about it. There always seemed to be some sort of haze
or strange light hovering over it, and sometimes screams and muffled sounds would drift down
the hill into our open windows, and we'd stop to gaze up at the place, which was actually kind
of welcoming for a haunted house. And, on Summer evenings when we'd lay on our yards and watch
fireflies, you could always hear the roar of jet engines in the air above, but you never saw any
lights, and the nearest Air Force Base wasn't for some disgusting amount of miles.
So, yeah, you should be able to imagine the way I couldn't help but laugh out loud when I
found myself slipping into the mind of someone riding in a peerless, black Buick with tinted
windows as it rolled lazily up our street and on through the gates to the School.
*Fin*
*Continued Next Chapter*