As soon as I wake up, I know I've overslept. Hank is already at the bar, taking the stools down and setting things up. He glances up when he hears me stir.
"You're awake then. Good."
Feeling like something died in my mouth, I get up and go to the bathroom. Taking a quick look at my reflection in the mirror, I suddenly feel like crying. Back when I was Abigail, I had always thought of myself as a pretty girl. I firmly remember being told on many occasions that I looked just like my mother, who had been gorgeous when she was my age.
My trembling hand reaches up to touch my face slowly. Where my skin had been perfectly fair and flawless before, like a golden peach, it was now at least two shades darker, and I had a long thin scar down the side of one temple. I seemed to have acquired freckles from somewhere as well. My hair is foreign to me as well. I know for certain that I had always been a natural blonde before. My hair now looked like patchwork quilt of different colors- blonde, ginger, chestnut- it's all in there. As if I hadn't been able to make up my mind which color I wanted to dye it.
Did I dye my hair at some point? I wonder silently as I stare at my face. I haven't had time to look at my reflection since I left, and the two motels I've stayed at on my way here were both lacking functional mirrors. I notice that my eyes are weird too…. One eye is hazel and the other is blue.
I look like a freak I think glumly, going back into the bar and picking up my bag.
"I'll be on my way now," I say, smiling for Hank's benefit. "Thanks for everything."
He nods. "You're very welcome." I notice him check out my bizarre hair color, now that it's daylight and he can see me better. "Is that a new trend?"
I shrug. "I wanted to be different," I lie. "Why pick one color when you can have them all?"
He mumbles something noncommittal and I realize he is trying not to offend me with his lack of enthusiasm.
"Don't worry Hank, different strokes for different folks and all that. I'm not offended." I laugh a little. "I don't think you have enough hair for this style anyway."
He laughs, running his hand over his scraggly thin hair. "Yeah, it's not as thick as it once was."
Glancing at the clock on the wall which reads 2:00, I say good-bye and leave Hank's Bar. Once outside, I stop for a moment and try to get my bearings. Last night, it was pretty dark when I came, so everything looks different, but pretty soon I recall the direction the school was in.
I set out, ignoring the rumble of my stomach and the nausea that comes from having skipped way too many meals. The fact that today is an unusually bright day doesn't help either.
As I trudge along the side of the small road, I run my hand self-consciously through my hair. I wouldn't say I'm a very vain girl, but I feel conspicuous and out of place with my freakish new appearance.
"But then, Wish is a freak, so it all fits together," I say aloud, just to hear the sound of my voice. That, at least, has not changed, and I find it rather comforting.
A few minutes later however, I'm forced to stop and take a break. My sneakers have been rubbing at the back of my ankles for the past week, and while my socks protected the skin for a while, today the rubbing has finally created large painful welts. I take my socks off to examine my feet and suck my breath in sharply as I touch them lightly with my fingers. The blisters on the backs of my ankles have popped, and they are oozing… whatever it is blisters ooze. They sting too much to put my socks back, so I just put my shoes on barefoot.
I get up and start walking again, and immediately I know I can't walk like this. If I step very very carefully, I can keep my shoes out of contact with my ankles, but the moment I pick up any speed, the rubbing makes walking unbearable. I sit down in the dirt again, tears of discouragement in my eyes.
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost; for want of a rider the battle was lost; for want of the battle the war was lost, and for the want of that war, the kingdom was lost. In short, for want of one little nail, an entire kingdom was lost. Feeling like this describes my problem exactly, I rack my brains on what to do next. I can't walk at all like this… the only think I can do, is continue the journey barefoot.
Steeling my resolve, I'm about to take off my shoes and continue my painful walk when I hear what sounds like an engine coming up behind me. I stand up gingerly and look back, putting my hand up to block the glare of the sun.
As the cyclist comes over the hill, I quickly discover that the engine belongs to a motorcycle, not a car. I debate whether to stick my thumb out and beg a ride; after taking a few experimental steps again, my decision is swift. I stick my thumb out and wait, hope blossoming in my chest as the motorcyclist slows down, and finally stops next to me.
The rider is without a helmet and wearing a distressed leather jacket and tight faded blue-jeans. Tired and road-weary as I am, his amazing physique still makes an incredible impression on me. He is broad shouldered and muscular. From what I can see, his legs look well-defined and powerful, but not very long, which makes me guess he probably isn't too tall.
I'm speechless as I take him in until he arches one eyebrow at me. "Need a ride kid?" he asks gruffly, and I almost swoon.
Blaming it on hunger and weariness, I nod silently. His face is as good to look at as his body, and despite my best attempts to keep my cool I find myself flushing. Idiot girl! Tell him where you're going! my wiser, more mature inner self chides, but I can't seem to find my voice.
His hair is dark and rather wild, and he has scruffy mutton chops that I wouldn't have believed could ever look good on a person if I hadn't met him. His eyes are dark and piercing, and he has little lines between his eyes brows, as if his face is usually set in a scowl. Despite those lines however, I get the feeling that he's nicer than he looks, and I give into the trust that has blossomed in my hammering chest. I clear my throat quickly, suddenly aware that I've been standing there, mute, like a dumb idiot for at least 10 seconds now.
"I'm going here," I say, reading off the address of the school from my little paper scrap.
His eyebrows go up as he hears the address. "Really?" He gives me a long look, and what could me the ghost of a smile. "Climb on, I'm going there myself."
"Thank you," I manage to rasp out as I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his middle. Again, my traitorous hormones insist on noticing how rock hard his stomach is, how good his leather jacket feels against my cheek, and how appealing his hair smells, like rain and forest and… wild things.
"Hold on kid," he growls back at me as he revs the motorcycle, and before I can reply, we're whipping down the road so fast tears come to my eyes. I close them and tuck my head down, finding it easier to breath now that the air around isn't whipping by so fast I can't draw it in.
As we speed along, I wonder musingly what a man like this is doing at a school for mutants. While I'm sure the school's mutant status isn't advertising to non-mutants for fear of becoming a total target for hate crimes, I have to wonder if there are any normal humans there. Perhaps this man doesn't know about the nature of the place. Or maybe he does. Maybe he's a mutant too… he might even be a teacher! I smile to myself as I get an image of him in a classroom, the badass leather jacket and motorcycle replaced by pressed slacks and a collared shirt.
This is all I have time to think about before we arrive, faster than I'd thought possible. The gates open for us without pause, and I wonder how he did it, not having felt him pressing a remote control or anything. Then I remember the motion detectors that I had seen on top of the wall last night. That must be it.
We pull up in front of the main building and he kills the engine. Swinging his leg over the bike, he gets off and turns to me. "Is the Professor expecting you?" he asks gruffly.
I don't know who the Professor is, so I shake my head quickly as I scramble off the bike and trot after him as he starts walking away. Now that I'm here, all my courage has drained out of me. I don't want to be left by myself.
"What are you doing kid?" he asks me suddenly, turning around.
"I- I don't know where to go," I stutter nervously.
He sighs, and I feel even more embarrassed as it suddenly occurs to me that this man is probably impatient to see someone.
"I'm sorry, I'm sure you have better things to do. I'll find my way if you'll just point me in the right direction," I say quickly. My attempt to mask my fear is lost on him, however, because he doesn't say anything, just turns back and starts walking to the large building we stopped in front of.
"Come on kid, I'll take you to his office," he says, and I can detect no annoyance in his voice. Feeling stupid for feeling so glad that I haven't annoyed him, I catch up with him and fall into step beside him.
Once we're inside, I can't stop looking around me in wonder. This building seems less like a place where mutants reside, and more like an upscale boarding school. My stomach twists as I ponder the question of how much tuition must cost.
"Hey, relax kid, you'll be all right here," he says, as if reading my mind.
I glance at him quickly. "I guess I'm a little nervous. I've come a rather long way you see."
He nods. "I can tell."
"Do I have an accent or something?" I ask, having noticed that the people of New York speak differently than everyone else I'd met so far.
He stops in front of a pair of double-doors and I backtrack a little. As he turns the handle, he leans towards me a little and says in a low voice "No, I can smell it," before walking into the office.
Once more, I'm speechless. Did he just tell me I smell bad? I think, a flash of annoyance fueled by embarrassment running across my mind. How rude! He may be handsome, and he may have helped me, but I feel a ping of dislike towards him as I follow him into the office.