Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men. That's the mortgage company. Wait. That's Marvel. The mortgage company owns my house. So I don't own anything, and I'm not making any money here, so I won't own anything any time soon, either.
The walls are gray here. So are the floors. So is everything. Emily, my roommate, says that when she was at the National Academy for Extraordinary Youth, they were allowed to hang up pictures and posters and things. But they don't really let you do that here. The only decorations we have are the "My Responsibilities" poster -- the one with the list of rules -- and a signed portrait of Captain America. May sent us that, after she graduated, and Dr. Grey said we could keep it we wanted to. It's at least a piece of color somewhere.
Even our uniforms are black and white and gray. Black sweater, white blouse, gray skirt, no variations. Mrs. Finch, who teaches Citizenship and Responsibility, said it's that way on purpose. "We want to keep you from developing inappropriate expectations."
That doesn't make any sense to me – my room at home had pink walls and a yellow rug, and I've never wanted to put on multicolored spandex and go fight crime – but there's nothing you can say to Mrs. Finch besides yes ma'am unless you want to stay up all night scrubbing that gray floor with a toothbrush, and I'm not doing that again. Last time, I was so sleepy afterwards that I really screwed up in Preparation for Public Service – I flew straight into the wall, like a bird into a patio door.
Every morning we have half an hour after PE and before breakfast. It's enough time, usually, if all the showers are working and you're not in line behind somebody who doesn't think she's clean until she's sung the entire score to Phantom of the Opera. I was in my room, drying my hair with a towel and trying to find a pair of black socks that didn't have holes in them. Emily was in front of the mirror, experimenting with her hair.
"What if I don't braid it before I put it up – more of a regular bun, like this?"
"It looks fine, Em."
"I dunno. It takes a lot of pins. It might come loose. I'll be out of uniform if it comes loose."
"Then braid it first, the way you always do. It doesn't matter. They've made their decision already. They're not going to be looking at your hair."
"They're going to be looking at my record, which has all those demerits for uniform crap. I've got to make a good impression. Maybe if I put it into one long braid, and pin that up..."
"Just do it the regular way. Quit worrying about it. What did Dr. Grey tell you?" She'd listen to Dr. Grey, right?
"She said to quit worrying about it."
"What did Michael say?" Of course she'd listen to her boyfriend. Michael had had his meeting a month ago, and he was just killing time at Xavier Memorial until his birthday, when he'd get his class-two registration and leave for a Department of Energy posting in Denver. He'd spent that month searching rental-housing listings, talking over and over about my apartment, and asking Emily's advice. Especially about double beds. Jeremy told me once that Michael'd bought Emily a little silver ring at the Museum of Art gift shop on our last field trip, and that he'd been waiting for the right moment to give it to her.
"He said his wasn't that bad and that I should quit worrying about it."
""There you go. Good advice from three great minds. You'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"Nope. But I keep telling you, they've made up their minds already. You've already got your Public Service posting -- you just don't know what it is yet. It's not like they're going to change it now, even if your hair does come loose."
"I feel so much better now. Can I wear one of your sweaters? Mine are faded –look, they're almost gray – and they won't give me new uniforms this close to graduation, and I can't look bad in front of those people. I just can't. "
When I'd asked for new socks, they'd given me new sweaters instead, and now I had four. Apparently, to the Mutant Control Authority, all black knitted things are interchangeable. I tossed her one of the new ones, still in the plastic bag it came in. "Here. It's yours."
"Really? Thanks." She put it on. "Wow. Loops. I think my loops tore off years ago." She put her registration armband through the thread loops on the left sleeve, and fastened it there.
"You're welcome." And the bell rang. "We're going to be late for breakfast."
On the way down the stairs I took them six at a time. That's not flying, I told myself. That's jumping. There's no rule about jumping. Everybody can jump. Nobody was watching, I could jump straight down that hole between the railings...
Emily's voice in my head, then. Sarah, that's flying. Don't.
And that's eavesdropping, or snooping, or whatever Dr. Grey calls it. So we're even. I won't tell if you won't. And I climbed over the railing and let go.
I didn't see Emily again until that night in the dining room. She sat where we always sat, over by the big window, her face buried in her hands. Michael had his arm around her shoulders. Michael's friend Jeremy was eating her dinner.
"Hey," I said to him, "That's Emily's."
"She said she didn't want it," he said with his mouth full. "I'm just trying to keep her from getting in trouble when she signs her tray back in."
"What happened?'
"Her meeting sucked," Michael whispered. "Class five, she's posted to Washington, and her supervising coordinator is scary."
Ouch. Forget that little silver ring, then. If she's a class-five registrant, he'd be lucky if they'd let him send her a postcard from Denver.
"Scary how?"
Emily looked up. Her eyes were red, but her voice was very clear. "She had a mauve ribbon pin on her jacket, and she bitched at Mrs. Finch for letting me in the conference room without an inhibitor. And I don't think she's that much older than I am.
Mauve is the color for Victims of Mutant Violence -- and the best way to get the enameled mauve-ribbon pin is to order it off the Friends of Humanity website. I can't imagine anybody -- especially somebody "not that much older than we are" -- bitching at Mrs. Finch, and I don't think Emily's ever had to wear a neural inhibitor in her life. And everybody says it's the young coordinators who push you too hard, not knowing what you really can and can't do, trying to prove something to somebody.
I picked at my food. I couldn't think of anything to say. I thought about It could be worse, but I couldn't think of how. "Em? Try to eat something, before Jeremy eats all of it. He already ate your banana. You want mine?"
"No."
"Anything? You want my tomatoes?" She'd eaten the little tomatoes off my tray since she was twelve and I was ten.
"No."
"You want some more water?"
"No. I want a class three registration and a posting in Colorado and a coordinator who doesn't hate me." She took the napkin off Michael's tray and wiped her eyes with it.
Michael's arm tightened around her shoulders. Jeremy put down Emily's sandwich and reached for her hand. I took the other one, and we held on as tightly as we could, until the bell rang.
There's another big room that isn't the dining room, and that's where we have study hours. Emily's seat is halfway across the room from mine, so I couldn't talk to her even if I could figure out what to say. She just sat there with her books closed and her eyes open and vacant, staring at nothing. It was obvious she wasn't working. She didn't even notice that Mrs. Finch was watching her.
"Stand up, please, Miss Sullivan," Mrs. Finch said.
Emily stood up. I looked away – I didn't want to watch this, but I had to listen; Mrs. Finch's voice carries.
"You're upset about something, aren't you?"
Emily whispered something.
"We can't hear you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And I think I know what it is. You're disappointed in your Public Service assignment, aren't you?"
A long silent pause. "Yes, ma'am."
"And I know why." Mrs. Finch met her eyes. "Because you're a spoiled, selfish little girl who doesn't appreciate the opportunities she's been offered. Isn't that right?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Let me tell you something, Miss Sullivan. You're lucky to have the chance to do Public Service at all. Thirty years ago, you wouldn't have a chance like this. You'd have been hunted like an animal or you'd have to join a criminal gang just to survive. They're doing you a favor. You ought to be grateful for the opportunity."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am, what?"
"Yes, ma'am, I ought to be grateful for the opportunity to serve my country."
"Ought to be?"
"I ... I am grateful for the opportunity to serve my country?"
"Mean it."
Flat and empty. "I am grateful for the opportunity to serve my country."
"Better. One thousand words on that for C&R tomorrow. And stop all this whining and moping – you're nearly eighteen years old. You need to set a better example."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sit down."
I looked over, then. Her face hadn't changed. I did physics problems and read two chapters of Western Civ and gave up halfway through the C&R homework. Mrs. Finch had us reading a bunch of stuff about Public Service, and the whole idea of Public Service made me sick at my stomach. I crumpled up my C&R paper and stared at the wall for a while. My eyes kept wandering to the red-white-and-blue spot at the front of the room. My powers do not belong to me. They belong to humankind. They are not mine to wield, only mine to give. They belong in human hands, and I will place them there through my loyal and obedient service to this republic and its citizens, so help me God. It didn't make me feel any better. I read some more Western Civ instead.
They let us out of study hours fifteen minutes early, because one of the fluorescent lights went out. Usually that would be pretty cool. Tonight it didn't matter. Emily and Michael left study hours together, to go wherever they could in the hour before lights-out. The recreation room, maybe. I went home.
When Emily comes back, she'll want privacy, after that Finch thing, I thought. I went to Anna and Rochelle's room instead. They were listening to music and flipping through magazines with pictures of prom dresses. "Oh, hey, Sarah," Anna said. "How's she doing?"
"Not too well. She's with Michael right now, I think – I thought she'd want to be alone. Can I hang out here?"
"No problem," Anna said. "Oh... I don't know if it'll do any good, but... " She took a crumpled paper bag out of her dresser drawer. "Here." She opened the bag and held out a couple Hershey kisses. "Chocolate's got to help, right?"
"Thanks," I said. "I'm sure it will."
There wasn't much to say that didn't feel like talking behind her back. I took one of the prom-dress magazines from the pile and leafed through it. Nobody in it had a registration armband or a Public Service assignment. There was something about glamorous careers that start with summer internships, and something about maintaining relationships with boys when you go to different colleges. The authors recommended visits and e-mail, neither of which would work for Emily and Michael, or for anybody I knew. The only interesting thing was an article about socks. It said that lots of movie stars had started knitting, and so it was trendy to know how. There was a pattern, too, bright multicolored socks that could be made in Eight Easy Steps. I wondered how hard it would be to do the whole pattern in black yarn instead.
The lights blinked. "Thanks," I said, and I handed the magazine back to Anna. "And thanks for the chocolate. Maybe that will cheer her up."
"Hope so. Tell her ... tell her we're sorry?"
I nodded.
Back in our room, Emily was staring into the mirror, snipping off her hair with sharp scissors. She didn't look at me. "It doesn't matter what I look like anymore. He's never going to see me again anyway. And besides, I don't want it to get in the way and tangle up when they put..." Her voice broke. "You know."
"Anna gave you some chocolate," I said, putting the kisses down.
She sniffled. "You eat it. I'm not hungry."
"You'll want it later. I'll put it in your drawer."
"I don't care. You eat it. I'd always thought it'd be better after graduation. I can't marry him... they won't even let me talk to him... and they'll be watching me for the rest of my life. Just like school. Only worse. Forever."
"You don't know that. You could be reclassified, you know. Later."
"In ten years. She told me. Ten years."
"It's something."
"No it isn't." She cut the last trailing strand of her hair and stared into her reflection's red-rimmed eyes.
"If you want me to," I said, "I'll trim the back for you, tomorrow morning, before inspection."
"I don't care. It's not like they can do anything else to me anyway."
The lights went off, and she started to cry, huge agonized wails and deep wrenching sobs like hiccups. "Ssssh," I whispered. "You have to be quiet, Em. You have to be quiet. You'll get in trouble."
"I don't care," she howled. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing they can do to me anyway. I don't care."
And then the door banged open.