X-Men Fanfic: Days of Becoming, Chapter 2
Mar. 6th, 2006 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talktoolooseDays of Becoming (formerly "Homecomings") Chapter 2: “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”
Author: your friendly neighbourhood Talktooloose
Fandom: X-Movieverse, starts pre-X1, finishes post-X2.
Pairing: multiple. Bobby/John at its heart.
Rating: Sudden storms on a secluded lake. Teenage sexuality, though no explicit sex at this stage. Realistic language.
Summary: A sudden increase in the manifestations of young mutants causes panic across America. Two young mutants, Bobby Drake and St. John Allerdyce follow very different paths to a new home and a new identity. But what is home? What is family? Is love enough to heal the wounds of betrayal?
Betas:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kuriadalmatia and mofic
Disclaimers: It wasn't me who used Magneto's helmet as an ashtray at the Christmas party.
Archiving: Please ask first
Comments: I would love to hear you have to say either in the LJ comments or privately at “talktooloose AT livejournal DOT com”
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1: "I Just Wanna Be Warm"
The dream that had woken Bobby up at four in the morning and led indirectly to his online conversation with Andi Murakami had been vivid and rich with horror.
He had dreamed of a castle in a desolate landscape, a castle that grew and grew as he walked toward it with sickening inevitability toward it. Sometimes the land he crossed was rock—black, jagged, volcanic— and sometimes it was worn linoleum like the floor of the laundry room or the halls of a rundown mall. And the castle’s composition changed, too, first appearing to be chalky stone and then, as he got closer, dark, almost purple ice. Bobby somehow understood that the castle was like the one in Disney World… a gateway between worlds with portcullises on the entries, front and back. His mission, he knew, was to get through the imposing building without being caught and to safely reach the other side. But he realized that in the stark landscape, there was no way to hide his approach. He looked desperately around himself for predators, for hunters, for the master of the castle who must not see him.
Looking back the way he had come, he saw his mother in the distance, at the bus stop where she had dropped him off, still waving. He turned from her, ashamed that whatever interdimensional, malevolent force was looking for him would see that Bobby still needed his mommy to drive him to the bus.
The castle loomed above him now and the wind howled and clutched at him, bringing with it a cold that made his breath visible. He heard something. Not a call exactly, certainly not his name, but he whipped his head upwards to the source—a silhouetted figure in the highest tower, moonlight glinting off his shaved head, his eyes immense glowing holes suspended in the shadowed face. Bobby could tell the figure was looking for him and he quickened his pace, running across the bridge and into the belly of the keep.
He groped his way forward in the dark, looking for the light of the exit door. From the shadows, he heard the growling and he wheeled around to see the beast. It was like an immense dog, but with most of its fur and much of its skin peeled back to reveal red, raw muscle that tensed and rolled as the beast stalked him. The dog-thing was stiff with ice and worked its great fanged jaws with a groan and a crack. On one red flank he could see a grocery sticker with a price per pound and a “best before” date.
The beast moved relentlessly towards him through the frosty air.
In the hours after he “met” Andi Murakami, the dream never again coalesced completely, but remained as fragments of color and sound and a sense of primal menace that made his sleep uneasy. He awoke in confusion and the world filtered into his senses piece by piece… strong morning light through the curtains, the smells of burned toast and coffee; and then the stiffness in his body, the pain in his side and hand. He rose up on his elbows and checked the time. It was 11:30 in the morning. He heard someone going by his room in the hall and called out.
“Mom?” He heard her backtrack and open his door.
“Good morning, Bobby honey.”
“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up for school?”
She seemed almost embarrassed as she answered, “Oh, Bobby, you had such… such a bad night. Your father thought maybe you should sleep it off a bit.”
Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and his pulse quickened. Images coursed through his brain with uncanny intensity—the slap, the ice, Trixie’s teeth, her convulsions, her stillness. The green girl. He opened his eyes to see his mother staring at him. What was that expression? Pity? Fear? Had Mrs. Kincaid been over to tell his mother that her mutant son had killed their dog? No, then everything would be worse. His father would be here. The police maybe.
His mother broke the sudden staring match, looking away as if embarrassed. “And, of course, I agreed!” she went on, loudly. “You weren’t yourself last night. And… and of course you were sick, too.” She looked away from him and started straightening the things on his dresser into meaningless order. “Don’t worry; I called the school to let them know you’d be absent.”
“That’s great, Mom,” he said, willing anger to fill him and push out the shame. He pulled back his covers and jumped out of bed in his boxers and t-shirt. “I’ll just, I dunno, guess about the stuff I missed in class. I’ll just fake that stuff on the exam!” With tense, staccato movements, he began quickly pulling on his clothes and assembling his schoolbooks, stuffing them angrily into his backpack while they carefully avoided each others’ eyes. He left the room and ran down the stairs.
She appeared on the second floor landing, looking down at him as he sat on the floor of the foyer tying his high-tops. “Bobby, really you should stay home and rest. Your father and I were talking and…”
“That’s great, Mom. I’m glad you were talking but I have to go, okay?” He pulled on a blue windbreaker and picked up his skateboard from the corner. “Why won’t you let me make my own decisions? You think you’re helping all the time but you’re not!” He slammed the front door behind him and ran, jumping onto his board and pushing away. Pushing away from the scene of the crime. Pushing away from the memories which seemed to chase him down the sidewalks like a pack of rabid dogs.
“So, if I’m a 14 year old mutant who calls the hotline or shows up at the drop-in, you’re saying you have nothing for me?” Andi’s only real surprise, as she sat with the Raheem Jones, Assistant Director of Youth Outreach Services at the Midtown Community Center, was that she was getting so aggravated. After all, who was she to suddenly take up the cause of a bunch of kids she had never met nor even thought about until last night when a putative 15-year-old mutant named Bobby had dropped out of the digital sky into her life?
“No, I’m saying I would have a whole range of services and programs for you around sexuality, drug use, peer mentoring, etc.,” said the tired-looking young man running a hand through his dreadlocks, “but nothing specifically for you if you were a new mutant. Andi, this whole probl… I mean phenomenon has just hit us, and hit us during another round of cutbacks. And the problems are not just our lack of understanding around the social service and health needs of mutant youth; there are legal ramifications, insurance worries…”
“Insurance?!” exclaimed Andi.
“Look. Let’s say you have a mutant who, I don’t know, turns brick to paste. How are we going to handle injuries or damage related to something that happens with him or her during a counseling session?”
“That’s preposterous!” The more this went on, the more Andi was growing exasperated on behalf of the kids she was beginning to think of as her new constituency. Watch it, she warned herself. You are five months into research for a major paper on the effects of divorce on social comfort in school. “Look, Mr. Jones—Raheem—how can you start with this much paranoia before you’ve even begun to help?”
“Because, Andi, it’s not my paranoia. It’s coming from the Board who are reading it in the Post and it’s coming from the lawyers who don’t want more trouble with Homeland Security!”
“Homeland Se…?” Her eyes grew wide and her tongue twisted into a Gordian knot of confusion. Raheem had clearly said something he regretted because he dropped his head into his hands and then looked around nervously before getting up and quietly closing the door of the office. He sat again among the jungle of paperwork and unfiled social science magazines.
“It was a big mess and it began last September. Anything I tell you, you are not to repeat. But I need you to understand what you’re getting yourself involved in.” He ran his fingers through his dreads and sighed. “The boy started showing up during the after school drop-ins. He didn’t really fit in; we have a lot of kids here who are one step away from the street. This kid was, well, even preppy didn’t describe it. He was scrubbed clean and buttoned down. He told us that he couldn’t let his parents know about him and we figured he was another gay kid from a religious family. We knew we’d be able to deal with that when he was finally ready to tell us.” He paused and looked out the window, as if he could see something through the haze of dirt and pigeon droppings.
“We were growing concerned; he was getting more scared every time he came around and saying he couldn’t control it. And then one day, while he was sitting watching the TV downstairs with the other kids, in come the parents. Well, we were right about the religious part, anyway. The Director tried to calm things down with a meeting in her office. The parents threatened the child with banishment and the City with a lawsuit. And then, when things got really bad, well…” And Jones just shut up, looking down at his lap.
“Please, Raheem,” Andi realized she hadn’t been breathing, “Please go on.”
“The Director said it was like a light. But that it also had a sound to it. Like a scream maybe. She—she doesn’t remember the events clearly. But then the parents were, um, in comas. There was blood coming from their ears and mouths and… Police were on the scene and paramedics, and then somehow things got kicked upstairs really quickly and, um, the kid was taken away.” He looked up at Andi with a terrible guilt in his eyes. “We tried to find out what happened to him! Our lawyer has taken it higher and higher but they’re all talking national security and privileged files and we’re getting nowhere!”
He started drumming his fingers on the pile of reports by his chair. “So yeah, Homeland Security. We have to report all details on any mutant client … and we won’t do that because it violates our privacy policies. So for now, as far as mutant kids go, it’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. I’m sorry.”
Andi didn’t know what to say, she was shaking with fury, she realized. “And that’s it? A group of children in need, a new minority, and the City of New York says ‘fuck you’? Do you know how scared they must be?” She had risen from her chair and was pacing the small room in tight circles. “They suddenly have these—these abilities! They’re suddenly aliens in their own family! They’re afraid they’re going to hurt someone and we aren’t rushing to help!” She had cornered Jones. “That’s criminal! That’s a complete abrogation of our…”
“Don’t you think I know that?” He shouted back, rising to face her. “Our hands are tied!” He sat again and gestured for her to do the same.
“But isn’t anyone doing anything? I have a kid in need! I told him I’d help. Today!” She realized her tone had gone whiny and, embarrassed, she took her seat and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.
Jones reached forward and put a hand on hers. “There’s a clinic in Poughkeepsie: private, expensive. Run by a Doctor Christian Turcott. They say if you send your mutant kid there, they will help him or her control their powers; suppress them, maybe. I don’t know if I trust them. They got their program together awfully quickly. The pamphlets are slick as hell but short on details so I don’t know…”
“Turcott, okay. Is there anything else? Anyone you do trust?”
“Maybe. His name is Charles Xavier. He used to teach in your department at Columbia; back in the 60s or 70s, I think. He’s been talking to various levels of government about mutants and their problems, their rights. He’s keeping it pretty backdoor now, but his name is getting around. Maybe you could talk to him?”
“Okay. Xavier. Someone at the Department must have a contact number. Raheem, I’m sorry I blew up. I just want to help this kid…”
“I know. Don’t worry, some of the worst arguments we have here at the Center are because we all want to help more. But sometimes we have to make the decisions that will benefit the largest number of clients. Realpolitik.”
“Well, someone’s got to take care of the others.” Andi said with determination.
Raheem smiled a little at that. “Ah, a Crusader! A lot of us start as Crusaders, Andi. Let’s hope the system doesn’t wear your grit off too quickly.”
Bobby ran into the cafeteria at 12:15, navigating the chaos-made-flesh-and-grease of the cavernous space. He found Mike Haddad sitting with Paul Greenstein and assorted other boys up in the corner by the stage. He noticed, not for the first time, the way that Mike had become the de facto center of the group. The other boys threw sideways glances at Mike when they said something they thought was especially clever or uniquely repulsive to see if he approved. Whenever a plan was hatched, there was a space made for his final word. So when Bobby squeezed himself into a place across from Mike and Mike stopped his conversation to smile and greet him, it made him feel, well, special.
“Hey, Bobby.” Mike said with a nod.
Greenstein gave Bobby a punch on the shoulder and shouted over the cafeteria din, “They said you were sick today. Your mom called and everything.”
“I’m feeling better,” Bobby replied, stealing a ketchup-soaked fry from Greenstein’s plate. “So I came in.”
Greenstein looked incredulous. “But your mom gave you a ‘get out of jail free card’ for the whole day, fool! Why bother getting out of bed?”
Bobby looked away sheepishly and said, “I told you guys yesterday that I’d have lunch with you today. So, um, here I am.” He looked up at Mike who looked him right in the eye and smiled. Bobby straightened and shot back at Greenstein, “There’s more to life than jacking off in bed all day!”
“News to me,” snorted Greenstein and shoved a fistful of bright red fry mash into his gaping mouth.
“Bobby, let’s get out of here. I gotta talk to you about something,” said Mike rising from the bench and picking up his empty lunch tray. Bobby grabbed his backpack and followed.
“Hey, Haddad,” shouted Greenstein, his lips red with ketchup, “You were gonna lend me your math notes!”
“I already put them in your binder, Paul,” Mike said. “And I want them back at 3:30!”
“Whatever,” mumbled Greenstein by way of thanks.
Bobby stopped at the cafeteria line to buy a generic white-bread and cellophane tuna sandwich and a bag of chips. He wolfed them down before they had even left the building, like he hadn’t eaten in a week. They walked off the school grounds into the surrounding neighborhood of ordered lawns and little castles. Bobby found himself wondering what dramas were unfolding behind all the anonymous walls with their rose trellises and fresh stucco. Marriages were falling apart, kids were shooting up heroin, hatreds and disappointments were multiplying; all under a veneer of vacant smiles and the latest designer homilies.
They were walking in silence, enjoying the sunshine after the relentless rain of the last few days. But despite the return of spring, Bobby found himself replaying the terrible events of the previous night in his head. It didn’t seem real… the hysterics of his family, the horror of the ice, Andi on the chatline and the meeting he was supposed to have with her later that day. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
Maybe I’m crazy, he thought. Maybe none of it happened. But if he could dismiss it all as a horrible nightmare, the one thing he couldn’t dismiss was the feeling of the ice—the way the powerful waves of cold had flowed from him. He knew it was not something outside, or something done to him. It was him. The power had come from him and was part of him. He was the monster in his own nightmare; uncontrollable, deadly…
“Hey, Drake, heads up!” Mike grabbed a basketball that was lying at the foot of a driveway and made a hard pass to Bobby who woke from his reverie just in time to snag it. Mike took off up the driveway towards the hoop above the garage door and Bobby whooped as he began dribbling up court towards him, fighting for an angle as Mike blocked, both boys intense and laughing. Bobby took his shot and Mike knocked the ball out of the air, retrieving it with a quick spin and sending it aloft for his two points.
“I’m heading for the NBA, Drake! Don’t get in my way!” Mike crowed as they marched back down the driveway. With a light toss, he threw the ball up into the middle of the lawn so whatever kid lived there wouldn’t lose it.
“Yeah, right,” returned Bobby, “Like your parents would let you do that instead of med school.”
“What about you? What do you want to do? You used to be all into Biology; I thought you’d be coming to Yale with me.”
“Right! I’m not a scion of the wealthy, Haddad. My family can’t afford Yale. Anyway, I don’t know what I… I don’t want to think that far ahead. I just want to survive the year, okay?” They had come to a small park at the end of the street and they climbed up to sit on the flat top of a small, worn monument that had been dedicated to some local hero from the Korean War.
“I’m worried about you, man.” Mike said seriously, fixing Bobby with too much intensity.
Bobby threw his hand across his forehead in a melodramatic gesture and declaimed in falsetto, “Oh! I’m worried about you, Bobby! Ever since the war, you haven’t been the same!”
“Stop it, Drake,” said Mike and Bobby deflated a bit. “You can hide out from your other friends all you like, but I know what’s up with you. Your fucking parents want to kill each other, they don’t need to bring you down, too.”
“Shut up,” Bobby said weakly, but there was no power behind the words. They sat in silence, their feet swinging a bit before he continued. “I kept believing that things were gonna get better, Mike. That they were gonna—fuck—be okay again. But it’s getting worse. Shit’s happening. Bad shit. And I don’t think it’ll ever get better. I’m doomed, man.”
He realized he was on the verge of tears, on the verge of saying things that even Mike wouldn’t forgive. And he couldn’t afford to lose everything and everyone now. So he punctured the dangerous mood of compassion and confession with the other half of the melodrama. Raising a manly fist across his chest, he lowered his voice and boomed, “I’m doomed, Dolores! The Drake family is cursed unto the seventh generation!”
Mike laughed and said, “So, listen, I want to ask you something. My parents are going to Beirut for three weeks for their business. You wanna come live at my place? Get away from your folks for a while?”
“What? No, I-I’m okay! I don’t need you to…”
“It’s not just for you. My mom thinks I shouldn’t be alone that whole time. She thinks I’ll be lonely and shit. And if you were there, we could study for exams together.”
“Your mom wants two 15-year-old boys tearing up her house while they’re away?” Bobby was getting excited despite his worries; the idea of not hearing the fights anymore, of not dealing with his parents was like a dream. “Doesn’t she know our generation can’t be trusted? We’re, like, drug addicts and pimps and everything!”
“I know! Rap music has polluted our virtue. Our parents stayed pure by only listening to Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond.” Mike laughed, “Don’t worry, we’ll be under the stern eye of The Dark Lord, Angelica!” The image of the Haddads’ short, sunny Filipina housekeeper as a kind of Darth Vader cracked Bobby up.
“You’re serious? Your mom wants me to stay over?” He hated to sound so excited and uncool, but it was really pretty awesome.
“Yeah, and if you say yes, she’ll call your mom and discuss it. So what do you say? Yes?”
Bobby thought, maybe it won’t happen again. I don’t feel the hot and cold waves today. Maybe that was it! One time and I got it out of my system. “Well, if my mom says it’s okay…”
“Awesome! Hey, it’s almost two, we gotta get to Spanish!” He jumped off the monument with a war-cry and broke into a run across the parkette, shouting: “¿Excúseme, señor, es esta su berenjena?”
“No, mi berenjena es más grande que éste,” yelled back Bobby as he also launched himself into the air and ran after his friend, feeling hope for the first time in weeks.
“Hello?” The man who answered the phone sounded young to Andi, but there was something intimidating about his voice, as if everyone who phoned was an annoyance. Or maybe she was just projecting her own doubt about this call. Maybe she was encountering her own fear and prejudice as she got closer to the world of mutants.
“Um, yes, I’d like to speak to Doctor Charles Xavier, if I could.”
“The Professor is very busy today. What is it you want to discuss with him?”
Clearly the young man was a guard-dog whom she would have to appease if she were to get to Xavier. She wondered why a retired psychology professor would be thus guarded. “My name is Andi Murakami. I’m a graduate student in the Psychology Department at Columbia. Professor Bernstein at the school gave me Dr. Xavier’s number. They were colleagues for many years. I’m doing research in the area of mutant youth and I understand he’s one of the world’s great experts on the subject.” Sound confident, drop names and sprinkle with flattery, she thought. The recipe for successful schmoozing.
There was a pause as the guard-dog chewed this over. “One moment please, I’ll see if the professor is available.”
Andi heard the phone put down on a table top and the sound of feet receding. No hold button. It’s not an office, she thought. After a couple of minutes, she heard a click and a warm, confident voice said, “Thank you, Scott. I’ve got it in here.” There was a further clunk as the other extension was hung up and the—no other word for it— professorial voice continued, “This is Charles Xavier, how may I help you?”
“Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Professor. My name is Andi Murakami. I’m a graduate student in psychology at Columbia and I have… um, I’m in need of some advice. About mutants.” She paused. It was amazing how fraught the word “mutant” suddenly felt. Under other circumstances, she could be triggering people into a sudden onslaught of ill-considered, prejudiced ranting. But to someone who knew mutants well or—now here was a thought—actually was a mutant, might she be saying something unwittingly insulting? Was there already a politically-correct term she didn’t know that she should be using?
“Go on, Ms. Murakami,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, adopting a tone of calm interest that she already recognized as that of the trained psychologist.
“I-I run an Internet chatroom for teens in divorcing families. Last night, I got into a chat with a 15-year-old who told me he was… he thought he was a mutant. He indicated that he had no one to tell and that he was scared he would be discovered. He was worried about the consequences to him, perhaps from his family.” She realized she was relieved to be sharing this burden with someone else. The feeling of isolated impotence had been an unaccustomed and uncomfortable one for her. “I told him I would chat with him again today; actually in about an hour. I–I promised him I’d have some answers for him. Professor, what can I tell him?”
“First of all, Andi, regarding whether he is or is not a mutant: in my experience, few people make a mistake about such an integral piece of identity, so let’s go forward on the assumption that he has, indeed manifested a mutation. We are in the early days of public understanding that there is indeed a small segment of the population who are mutants and the reaction on the street is mostly one of fear and misinformation.
“Your young man will likely have heard this misinformation rather than clear facts. He will have heard that mutants are a threat and a danger to those around them. He will perhaps have heard some of the worst lies: that mutants, in addition to possessing varied, often considerable powers, also lack a fundamental humanity. There are those who are saying they are born into human families but, like cuckoos or, more mythically, changelings, do not belong to those families and cannot be trusted.”
Andi had heard such thoughts coming from more reactionary news sources and had ignored them the way she ignored inflammatory anti-immigrant ravings, but she suddenly intuited just how the rise of a mutant population could be greeted by a scared, under-educated populace. “What do the Religious Right have to say, Professor?”
“There is no unified answer coming from the various fundamentalist camps, but some see the hand of the Devil in the birth of mutant children and some equate mutant powers with possession. It is a very volatile situation that some children are manifesting into. What do you know about your client?”
“Oh, he’s not my…” but, she supposed that Bobby was now, indeed her client. “Very little, I suppose. He seems bright. You can tell surprisingly quickly in chat who is more or less literate and he seems to be well-educated and intellectually engaged.”
“And you said he’s from the Boston area?” Xavier inquired.
“Boston? No, I didn’t say…”
“No, no! Of course not. I was—thinking about something else, I’m sorry.” He seemed flustered for a minute. “I don’t have much to offer you, I regret. I have been encouraging various social agencies at the federal, state and municipal levels to begin preparing for the needs of this population. But I’ve had to tread carefully. If I’m not careful to whom I speak, my words just serve to inflame rather than inform. My worst fear is that I inadvertently create the environment for political opportunism. I meet the politician to encourage support for mutants and leave having made them a new enemy.”
Andi felt a wave of hopelessness “So, what do I tell my client?”
Xavier, perhaps sensing he had dampened her spirit, brightened his tone: “Now, don’t think nothing is happening. Some forward-thinking agencies are creating peer-support groups for mutants in centers large enough to have a meaningful population. We don’t actually know how many mutants there are, but even in a city the size of New York, we believe there may be fewer than fifty young mutants. Unfortunately, even in such relatively enlightened districts, there is institutional fear within the social service sector.”
“So I discovered,” Andi said ruefully.
Xavier continued, his voice intensifying. “What we need is enthusiastic young professionals and academics like you making their voices heard.”
“Me? No, Professor, my research is into effects of divorce on youth… I’ve devoted the past year to…”
“Yes, yes, and I’m sure you’ve done good work in a well-trodden field, Ms. Murakami… Andi. But stop and think for a moment. The psychology and sociology of mutants is new ground. If one acted quickly, one could make quite a name for him or herself.”
Andi fell silent. She suddenly saw a vision of published papers, of speaking appearances. The word “Doctor” flared suddenly in front of her name as she was introduced to an audience who were drawn to the conference out of curiosity and, perhaps, a sense of currency, urgency, to hear what they could from an expert in a vital new field… She returned abruptly to the here and now, shaking her head to clear the siren-like visions. The crafty old bastard, she thought, he did that on purpose; appealed to my vanity. But she had to admit, there was truth in his words. The ambitious part of her felt opportunity beckoning.
She spoke up at last and realized he had been waiting patiently for her to do so. “Professor, I’d like to meet you, if I may. To discuss further options… for my client.”
“Gladly, Andi,” the calm voice replied and she could feel his smile through the phone. “Andi, about this client. You said you felt he was bright. I am, as it happens, starting up a preparatory school for mutants in the Fall. Enrollment will be extremely limited at first. I would be interested in speaking to this young man, if he would agree to it, to see if he would be an acceptable candidate.”
“Oh. Wow. Um, I’ll mention it to him.” She smiled; now she actually had some hope to offer Bobby.
“Actually, I need to ask for some discretion on your part. I plan to keep a low profile for this school. I do not need protest or worse to interfere with the lives of these students. Andi, I feel I can trust you on this matter. Tell your client that I wish to speak with him, if possible, but not about what.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you for your help.”
“Not at all. It is I who am looking forward to meeting you. Ms. Murakami, we have much work to do! Good day.” And without waiting for her reply, he abruptly hung up.
Andi stood holding the phone, feeling full of hope and a sense of mission. Then the phone beeped angrily at her, demanding to be re-cradled. Startled, she put it down and only then said to herself, Hey, wait a minute! I’ve just been recruited!
At 4:10, Bobby turned the key to the lock and right away felt his stomach lurch. Great, he thought, I’m allergic to my own house now. Maybe no one was home. Maybe he could get in and up to his room without having to actually talk to any of the Drakes. But his hopes were dashed by a voice from living room.
“Bobby? Hi, honey, I’m in here!”
He didn’t answer and instead of turning right into the living room, went straight ahead to the kitchen. His stomac, he realized, was telling him to eat more. Despite the lunch he had consumed, despite the bag of chips on the way out of school, he found himself loading up a plate with a cold chicken wing from the fridge, an apple, a pile of crackers and two cheese sticks. Weird, he thought absently. He began devouring the apple greedily as he slouched into the living room where his mother sat at the antique writing desk that looked out onto the garden. She smiled brightly in a way he didn’t want to see at the moment.
“My God, you’d think you were starving to death,” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you have lunch?”
“Just hungry, mom,” he replied cooly as he noticed the textbooks and stapled stacks spread out before her. Her real estate license. She was still studying for that damn thing.
“Mom, did you get a phone call?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Bobby? From the school?”
“No, never mind. I’ve gotta go study.” He turned from her, no doubt leaving her confused and worried, but she was always confused and worried. And he just didn’t feel like bringing up Mike’s offer until he had to. What if she had a million questions for him? What if she didn’t want him to go?
Up in his room, Bobby found himself sinking deeper into fury. The fucking real estate liscence! He hated his mother for her careful preparations and selfish dreams. She’s still married and she’s already planning her new little life. He could see a picture of her in his mind as the energetic single working mom, trotting out him and Ronny to show off to clients. “My husband left us and look how well I’m doing! I’m Supermom!” It made him sick. Bobby took a kind of cruel satisfaction in imagining that moment in front of the client when he would calmly say, ‘I’m a mutant, did you know that?’ and how his mother would blanch and run away crying.
Mutant. It was the first time all day he’d even let the word cross his mind. Bobby’s brain seemed to stop for a moment—to skip a beat and stutter liked a scratched CD before it found its mark again on a different track altogether.
But I’m not a mutant, he calmly explained to himself, sitting at his computer, calling up a Flash game where he had to round-up green, bug-like creatures into a holding pen and incinerate them before they could escape and spread. I’m definitely not.
So what happened last night? responded a rational corner of his brain. But Bobby was ready for just that kind of question. Who knows exactly? But it was probably some kind of cosmic phenomenon. Or a weather anomaly maybe? Yes! A freak ice storm in April. Caused by global warming. And if I think I caused it, I must be some kind of lunatic egomaniac. What if said I caused the tsunami in the Pacific, too? That’d be crazy, right?
He blasted two or three of the bugs with his cattle prod weapon as they tried to break free. The time was 4:37. Every minute that had passed since 4:30 had been an agony of guilt. He could feel Andi waiting for him somewhere in cyberland. But what was he going to tell her after she spent all day researching mutants for him? He wasn’t a mutant! It wasn’t his fault.
He lost his concentration and the bugs took over, filling the screen and chirping hostilely at him as they danced their alien victory dance.
“Shit!” he shouted at the screen and typed the URL with loud angry keystrokes. The Staying 2Gether chat interface opened before him like an accusation. He checked to see who was logged in: DarkPrincess, gundamboy and, yes, beenthere, Andi’s nickname. He felt his heart racing and his underarms sweating up. This is stupid! Just tell her it was a mistake!
Welcome! You have entered [2gether] at 4:39 pm
[2gether]: StoneCold has entered at 4:39 pm
[beenthere] 4:39 pm> so how does he talk about your mom when you stay with him?
[DarkPrincess] 4:40 pm> nuthing bad. just kind of growls a lot.
[gundamboy] 4:41 pm> Stone! beenthere is here. he’s looking 4 u.
[beenthere] 4:41 pm> Hi stonecold
[DarkPrincess] 4:41 pm> hey stone
[StoneCold] 4:42 pm> She. beenthere’s a girl. woman. right?
[beenthere] 4:43 pm> right. u guys mind? stone and i have some business
[gundamboy] 4:43 pm> Stone, gina was on forevr looking 4 u. shes all worryed and shit.
[beenthere] 4:44 pm> i’ll send him right back 2 u, gundamboy. Stonecold, i’ll exit and create a room for us. then you type “<enter coldroom>”, ok?
[StoneCold] 4:45 pm> ok
[2gether]> [beenthere] has left at 4:45 pm
[DarkPrincess] 4:46 pm> evrything cool, StoneCold?
[gundamboy] 4:46 pm> u dating beenthere?
[StoneCold] 4:47 pm> it’s nothing guys. just talk. tell gina i’m ok, gundam
[StoneCold] 4:47 pm> <enter coldroom>
[2gether]> [StoneCold] has left at 4:45 pm
Welcome! You have entered [coldroom] at 4:45 pm
[coldroom]: StoneCold has entered at 4:45 pm
[beenthere] 4:48 pm> you made it!
[StoneCold] 4:48 pm> nice place you got here. u decorate yourself?
[beenthere] 4:49 pm> LOL. u like the lava lamps?
[StoneCold] 4:49 pm> nice.
[beenthere] 4:50 pm> I’ve had a very interesting day, Bobby. Learning a lot about mutants
[StoneCold] 4:50 pm> Listen. I have something to tell u
[beenthere] 4:51 pm> But I don’t have all the answers for u yet. I’m sorry
[beenthere] 4:51 pm> what. what do u want to tell me?
[StoneCold] 4:52 pm> I think I made a mistake. I’m not a mutant, Andi
[beenthere] 4:52 pm> are you saying you made up what you told me, Bobby?
[StoneCold] 4:53 pm> No! I was confused. Some bad stuff happened. Fight with the family and I was attacked by this dog. There was a freak ice storm.
[beenthere] 4:54 pm> Ice storm in late April? Are you up north? Northern Canada?
[StoneCold] 4:54 pm> look. I’m really really sorry I wasted your time but I’m just not. A mutant. That’s good news isn’t it?
[beenthere] 4:55 pm> Bobby, it just sounds strange. Are you sure?
[StoneCold] 4:56 pm> I guess i would know, wouldn’t I?! Thank you really for all your help but I have a lot to sort out now. Maybe you can help some other mutant kids with this information. It must really suck to be like that. But I’m not, Andi.
[beenthere] 4:57 pm> Bobby, I’m going to give you my e-mail address. If you need my help, I want you to use it.
[StoneCold] 4:57 pm> I don’t. don’t need your help.
[beenthere] 4:58 pm>Please write it down, Bobby. andimura@gmail.com Have you got it?
[StoneCold] 4:58 pm> yes. wrote it down. but I don’t need it
[beenthere] 4:59 pm> then just say hi some time. You seem like a nice guy.
[StoneCold] 5:00 pm> I gotta go.
[coldroom]> [StoneCold] has left at 5:00 pm
Bobby leaned back hard in the chair, making the springs squeak ominously. Fuck her! he thought. Why don’t adults ever believe me? He scrunched up his eyes and punched his shoulder to keep himself angry, to stop himself from crying like a kid. Everything is working out great! I don’t need anyone’s help!
Watching the screen, he saw that Gina had entered 2gether. That annoyed him, too. He didn’t want anyone else worried about him. It felt like the whole world was conspiring to make his life into a Degrassi episode. If his parents divorced, they divorced. It happened all the time to kids. If he was failing at school, he just had to get back to work. Stop whining. With a bit of hard work, he could be a top student like Mike and join him at Yale on a scholarship. He imagined them together in a dorm with really cool posters on the wall, going to see concerts and hanging out at campus pubs. Two desks, two beds, best buddies forever. He felt himself getting an erection and put a hand down the front of his pants, holding himself, feeling his confidence returning.
“Bobby?” his mother said quietly from the other side of the door, giving two short knocks before she turned the doorknob. Bobby pulled his hand out of his pants and untucked his shirt so it would cover his hard-on. He heard her come in behind him.
“Hi, Mom,” he said with forced cheer, opening up a word-processing window. “I’m just getting an English essay going.”
“That’s good, honey. Bobby, I just got a call from Barbara Haddad. She said you and Mike had talked about you going to stay at their place for a while. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot, Mom. He asked me today. If you don’t want me to, it’s okay.”
“No, no, I think it’s an excellent idea! We all have so much to think about these days, don’t we? And maybe if you were away a bit…”
Bobby was suddenly very unsure. He looked into her face and all he could see was a succession of masks. Did she want him to go? Maybe she thought he was the problem in the family. Maybe she knew he was a… but he wasn’t! He looked at her again, but her mind had already wandered off. Look at that, he thought. She doesn’t care. She barely knows I exist half the time!
“Oh Bobby,” she suddenly blurted out. “You know the Kincaid’s dog, Trixie? The poor thing seems to have had a heart attack last night! They found her dead by the pool when they woke up this morning. Why, she wasn’t more than four years old! Life is just so… so arbitrary, you know?”
Bobby stiffened. I didn’t kill her, he thought instantly. It was an ice storm and the dog died of a heart attack! Purebred dogs have congenital conditions sometimes. But it was all too vivid, here in this room, here in this house. He would get away and start that new life he was thinking about.
“I’m gonna do it, Mom. I’m going to stay with Mike. It’s just for a couple of weeks, right? You’ll be okay, right?”
“Me? Of course, honey! You do what’s right for you! Don’t worry about us.” She was staring at him suddenly with a kind of intensity he found humiliating. Her eyes were large and moist. “Oh, look what an old sap your mom is! I’m tearing up about that silly dog.” She abruptly turned away, straightening her sweater. “I’ve got to get dinner ready, Bobby. You work on your English paper. Oh, and tuck your shirt in.”
Mike and his parents were waiting in the Drakes’ driveway, their Lexus idling quietly as Madeline checked that Bobby had all of his bags, like he was departing on a space shuttle mission instead of moving two miles away for three weeks.
“Mom, if I’m missing anything you’ll drive it over! Or I’ll borrow whatever from Mike.”
“Bobby, you listen to me!” She said, straightening his windbreaker on him. “I do not want to hear from Barbara Haddad that you and Mike caused any trouble. That means no friends over without the housekeeper’s permission, no parties. You go to sleep at a reasonable hour and do your homework before watching videos or playing games, is that clear?” She reached up and started patting his curls into place.
Bobby shielded his head. “Mom, quit it! They’re watching! My hair is fine. And yes, I’ll be a perfect Little Lord Fontleroy!”
“Oh, Bobby, I’m going to miss you. You and your stubborn, surly mouth!” She laughed.
“Hey,” Bobby suddenly asked, looking over her shoulder into the house. “Isn’t Ronny coming down?”
“I don’t think so, Bobby. I think he’s kind of sad that you’re going. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”
Bobby suddenly felt devastated. In all the build-up to his departure, he hadn’t noticed that Ronny wasn’t really talking to him. He looked out to the Haddads, waving and yelled, “Just one sec, okay? Sorry!” and ran into the house.
Ronny was lying on his stomach on his carpeted floor, drawing a dragon with colored pencils in the big newsprint sketchbook their parents had bought him on his birthday last month. He didn’t look up when Bobby came in.
“Hey, Ronny, I’m going now.” Bobby said from the door.
“So?” said his brother and kept drawing.
“I thought you’d come down and say goodbye,” Bobby said, softening his voice.
“Bye,” said Ronny and made a show of concentrating even harder on his drawing. Bobby squatted on the floor in front of him and put a hand on Ronny’s head.
“I’ll just be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“Fine. Just leave me here. I don’t care.” Ronny’s voice was getting tighter and less audible.
“I’m not leaving you, Ronny,” Bobby said a bit desperately. “Mike asked me to stay with him. His mom asked me!”
Ronny suddenly looked up at Bobby with an anger the older boy had never seen on his face. “You’re going to just leave me here with them! With him! You don’t care, you’ll be out of the house. You don’t care what happens to me!” and with that he shoved Bobby who lost his balance and rolled back onto his ass. Ronny started crying. “Just go! Your new family is waiting for you!”
“They’re not my… You’re my… Oh, forget it!” Bobby got to his feet. “I’ve got to go, Ronny, okay? I have no choice. There’s stuff you don’t understand! I can’t be here anymore!”
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!” Ronny screamed in a voice so high and raw that Bobby got goosebumps.
From downstairs, he heard his mother calling, “Bobby? Ronny? Is everything okay?”
Bobby ran past her as she climbed the stairs. She called after him, “He’s upset, Bobby. I’ll talk to him. You better go.”
He turned at the door and watched her disappear into the upper hall. He then caught sight of his father, standing at the entrance to the living room. The two looked at each other across the foyer and they might as well have been standing on two buttes in the desert, a mile apart. Neither seemed able to muster the breath it would take to shout across the chasm. Jealousy, anger, loss welled inside Bobby. Without another word, he turned and left the Drake household.
Bobby could have chosen from two guestrooms in the Haddad’s rather palatial home. In fact, they even had a small apartment over their separate three car garage that stood on the wide curved driveway within the graceful brick walls that enclosed their property. But instead, he took Mike’s offer of the second bed in his room that used to be occupied by the older Haddad son who was off at university in Switzerland.
It was already after 11 on a school night, but the two were excitedly talking in the dark about plot holes in the horror movie they had just watched.
Bobby felt wide awake, the images of gore and mayhem making him smile. “It got so lame, though—the old cop spying on him all the time. If he thought that guy was the murderer, he would have just arrested him.”
“No, he couldn’t!” answered Mike, off to his right in the dark. “He was disgraced on the force. They thought he was nuts.”
Bobby could see the strange shapes in the dim light of the large bedroom and tried to figure what each was: computer printer, skis, dresser. Mike’s aquarium bubbled quietly in the corner and the furnace sounded different than the one at the Drake house. The sheets on the bed were smooth, as opposed to the flannels he was used to and they hissed whenever he moved. It was thrilling to be somewhere new!
“But anyway,” Bobby concluded, “that stuff doesn’t really matter so much. It was a really cool movie.”
“Oh, I know,” Mike agreed. “The logic of horror movies is the relentless logic of death.”
Bobby cracked up, “You did not just make that up!”
Mike sounded wounded, “Did I say I did? It’s from this book I got last week: ‘Memento Mori: the Passions of Horror Films.’ I’ll show it to you tomorrow. Hey, let’s go to sleep; it’s late. I’m glad you’re here, Bobby.”
Bobby felt buoyant, freer than he had in months. He believed he could handle it all now. His life was going to get better starting tonight. “Me too, Mike. Good night.”
“Don’t snore, Drake.”
“Don’t fart, Haddad.” They snickered in the dark.
The castle stood alone and deserted in the cold world. The wind howled terribly and Bobby could only continue his approach if he stayed low, sheltered by the short brick wall that traversed the wasteland. He looked up nervously at the tower high above but the bald man was nowhere to be seen. He breathed easier thinking ‘I can do this!’ when suddenly the man was standing there, not twenty feet away, off to his left. He seemed to emanate a mist that obscured his features, but Bobby recognized the smooth head, the slim build, and most of all the featureless eyes that burned through him with a gaze that missed nothing, that saw all his faults and secrets.
“What do you want?” Bobby asked the still figure whom, he realized was actually floating a few feet off the hard ground. “Why are you here?”
“Do not refuse it, Bobby,” the figure said. “It is your gift. Accept it or be destroyed by it.”
Bobby stammered, at a loss for words. Denials sprung to his lips and died away. He felt ashamed. Suddenly a terrible howling, high, raw and louder than the wind filled the air and he turned towards the castle in time to see the dog-beast galloping towards him with a terrible, almost lustful rage in its eyes, teeth bared, saliva splashing.
“Quickly,” the floating figure yelled. “You must save yourself! Save us both!”
The beast was closing in, the size of a horse, its raw flanks stinking.
“How?!” screamed Bobby over the howling wind, “What can I do? I’m just a freshman!”
“The Ice,” shouted back the bald figure. “Use the ice!!”
Bobby turned back to the beast who lowered himself on steely limbs and launched into the air, flying thirty feet up and then turning effortlessly to dive down on Bobby. The boy screamed and raised his hands, the familiar wave of powerful cold leaping from his belly, from this groin, from the deepest parts of him out through his fingers and spraying the beast in icy death even as it closed in for the kill.
With a terrible roar, the great creature crashed to the ground before him, scattering shards of ice. Bobby turned to the floating man who simply smiled and vanished.
Bobby looked back at the beast and it was no longer so huge. In fact, as he approached the body, encased in its deadly sheath of glass, it seemed to shrink, to grow pitiful and frail until, at last, as he looked down into its face, he realized it was his brother Ronny he had killed.
Bobby sat up in bed, gasping. He panicked, looking around the strange space until he remembered where he was. You’re okay, he told himself. You’re with Mike. Ronny’s safe at home. It was just a dream. He was still panting heavily and that’s why he noticed it. His breath. He could see his breath misting in front of him. And on the edge of the blanket, where his hands had been gripping it, a pale sheet of frost glistened in the attenuated night light of the room.
He felt under the covers and the slippery frost was everywhere, as if his body had sweated ice. And if the horror of this waking dream wasn’t bad enough, he could feel, deep inside, the same horrific, powerful feeling that had that come on last week and grown and grown until it had become the night of the ice, the murder of Trixie. He had tried to deny it but what he felt in the dream was truth. The power was inside him, like a monster in a castle, and it would get out no matter how he tried to stop it. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
Desperately trying to keep his teeth from chattering and waking Mike, he climbed out of bed. He wrapped the blanket around himself, and tiptoed out of the room and down to the living room, decorated in a mixture of the colorful orientalism of Lebanon and the stolidity of Upper Middle Class Boston. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly in the still night, showing twenty minutes after four as he crept past it, shaking. He sat in a corner of the immense, satin-draped couch, legs pulled up to his chest and endured the waves of hot and cold that moved through him like torture, wondering what would happen when he lost control again. Wondering who would die this time.
I’m a mutant, he said to himself. Over and over, I’m a mutant, a mutant…
He slept no more that night.
On to Chapter 3...
Author: your friendly neighbourhood Talktooloose
Fandom: X-Movieverse, starts pre-X1, finishes post-X2.
Pairing: multiple. Bobby/John at its heart.
Rating: Sudden storms on a secluded lake. Teenage sexuality, though no explicit sex at this stage. Realistic language.
Summary: A sudden increase in the manifestations of young mutants causes panic across America. Two young mutants, Bobby Drake and St. John Allerdyce follow very different paths to a new home and a new identity. But what is home? What is family? Is love enough to heal the wounds of betrayal?
Betas:
kuriadalmatia and moficDisclaimers: It wasn't me who used Magneto's helmet as an ashtray at the Christmas party.
Archiving: Please ask first
Comments: I would love to hear you have to say either in the LJ comments or privately at “talktooloose AT livejournal DOT com”
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1: "I Just Wanna Be Warm"
The dream that had woken Bobby up at four in the morning and led indirectly to his online conversation with Andi Murakami had been vivid and rich with horror.
He had dreamed of a castle in a desolate landscape, a castle that grew and grew as he walked toward it with sickening inevitability toward it. Sometimes the land he crossed was rock—black, jagged, volcanic— and sometimes it was worn linoleum like the floor of the laundry room or the halls of a rundown mall. And the castle’s composition changed, too, first appearing to be chalky stone and then, as he got closer, dark, almost purple ice. Bobby somehow understood that the castle was like the one in Disney World… a gateway between worlds with portcullises on the entries, front and back. His mission, he knew, was to get through the imposing building without being caught and to safely reach the other side. But he realized that in the stark landscape, there was no way to hide his approach. He looked desperately around himself for predators, for hunters, for the master of the castle who must not see him.
Looking back the way he had come, he saw his mother in the distance, at the bus stop where she had dropped him off, still waving. He turned from her, ashamed that whatever interdimensional, malevolent force was looking for him would see that Bobby still needed his mommy to drive him to the bus.
The castle loomed above him now and the wind howled and clutched at him, bringing with it a cold that made his breath visible. He heard something. Not a call exactly, certainly not his name, but he whipped his head upwards to the source—a silhouetted figure in the highest tower, moonlight glinting off his shaved head, his eyes immense glowing holes suspended in the shadowed face. Bobby could tell the figure was looking for him and he quickened his pace, running across the bridge and into the belly of the keep.
He groped his way forward in the dark, looking for the light of the exit door. From the shadows, he heard the growling and he wheeled around to see the beast. It was like an immense dog, but with most of its fur and much of its skin peeled back to reveal red, raw muscle that tensed and rolled as the beast stalked him. The dog-thing was stiff with ice and worked its great fanged jaws with a groan and a crack. On one red flank he could see a grocery sticker with a price per pound and a “best before” date.
The beast moved relentlessly towards him through the frosty air.
In the hours after he “met” Andi Murakami, the dream never again coalesced completely, but remained as fragments of color and sound and a sense of primal menace that made his sleep uneasy. He awoke in confusion and the world filtered into his senses piece by piece… strong morning light through the curtains, the smells of burned toast and coffee; and then the stiffness in his body, the pain in his side and hand. He rose up on his elbows and checked the time. It was 11:30 in the morning. He heard someone going by his room in the hall and called out.
“Mom?” He heard her backtrack and open his door.
“Good morning, Bobby honey.”
“Mom, why didn’t you wake me up for school?”
She seemed almost embarrassed as she answered, “Oh, Bobby, you had such… such a bad night. Your father thought maybe you should sleep it off a bit.”
Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and his pulse quickened. Images coursed through his brain with uncanny intensity—the slap, the ice, Trixie’s teeth, her convulsions, her stillness. The green girl. He opened his eyes to see his mother staring at him. What was that expression? Pity? Fear? Had Mrs. Kincaid been over to tell his mother that her mutant son had killed their dog? No, then everything would be worse. His father would be here. The police maybe.
His mother broke the sudden staring match, looking away as if embarrassed. “And, of course, I agreed!” she went on, loudly. “You weren’t yourself last night. And… and of course you were sick, too.” She looked away from him and started straightening the things on his dresser into meaningless order. “Don’t worry; I called the school to let them know you’d be absent.”
“That’s great, Mom,” he said, willing anger to fill him and push out the shame. He pulled back his covers and jumped out of bed in his boxers and t-shirt. “I’ll just, I dunno, guess about the stuff I missed in class. I’ll just fake that stuff on the exam!” With tense, staccato movements, he began quickly pulling on his clothes and assembling his schoolbooks, stuffing them angrily into his backpack while they carefully avoided each others’ eyes. He left the room and ran down the stairs.
She appeared on the second floor landing, looking down at him as he sat on the floor of the foyer tying his high-tops. “Bobby, really you should stay home and rest. Your father and I were talking and…”
“That’s great, Mom. I’m glad you were talking but I have to go, okay?” He pulled on a blue windbreaker and picked up his skateboard from the corner. “Why won’t you let me make my own decisions? You think you’re helping all the time but you’re not!” He slammed the front door behind him and ran, jumping onto his board and pushing away. Pushing away from the scene of the crime. Pushing away from the memories which seemed to chase him down the sidewalks like a pack of rabid dogs.
“So, if I’m a 14 year old mutant who calls the hotline or shows up at the drop-in, you’re saying you have nothing for me?” Andi’s only real surprise, as she sat with the Raheem Jones, Assistant Director of Youth Outreach Services at the Midtown Community Center, was that she was getting so aggravated. After all, who was she to suddenly take up the cause of a bunch of kids she had never met nor even thought about until last night when a putative 15-year-old mutant named Bobby had dropped out of the digital sky into her life?
“No, I’m saying I would have a whole range of services and programs for you around sexuality, drug use, peer mentoring, etc.,” said the tired-looking young man running a hand through his dreadlocks, “but nothing specifically for you if you were a new mutant. Andi, this whole probl… I mean phenomenon has just hit us, and hit us during another round of cutbacks. And the problems are not just our lack of understanding around the social service and health needs of mutant youth; there are legal ramifications, insurance worries…”
“Insurance?!” exclaimed Andi.
“Look. Let’s say you have a mutant who, I don’t know, turns brick to paste. How are we going to handle injuries or damage related to something that happens with him or her during a counseling session?”
“That’s preposterous!” The more this went on, the more Andi was growing exasperated on behalf of the kids she was beginning to think of as her new constituency. Watch it, she warned herself. You are five months into research for a major paper on the effects of divorce on social comfort in school. “Look, Mr. Jones—Raheem—how can you start with this much paranoia before you’ve even begun to help?”
“Because, Andi, it’s not my paranoia. It’s coming from the Board who are reading it in the Post and it’s coming from the lawyers who don’t want more trouble with Homeland Security!”
“Homeland Se…?” Her eyes grew wide and her tongue twisted into a Gordian knot of confusion. Raheem had clearly said something he regretted because he dropped his head into his hands and then looked around nervously before getting up and quietly closing the door of the office. He sat again among the jungle of paperwork and unfiled social science magazines.
“It was a big mess and it began last September. Anything I tell you, you are not to repeat. But I need you to understand what you’re getting yourself involved in.” He ran his fingers through his dreads and sighed. “The boy started showing up during the after school drop-ins. He didn’t really fit in; we have a lot of kids here who are one step away from the street. This kid was, well, even preppy didn’t describe it. He was scrubbed clean and buttoned down. He told us that he couldn’t let his parents know about him and we figured he was another gay kid from a religious family. We knew we’d be able to deal with that when he was finally ready to tell us.” He paused and looked out the window, as if he could see something through the haze of dirt and pigeon droppings.
“We were growing concerned; he was getting more scared every time he came around and saying he couldn’t control it. And then one day, while he was sitting watching the TV downstairs with the other kids, in come the parents. Well, we were right about the religious part, anyway. The Director tried to calm things down with a meeting in her office. The parents threatened the child with banishment and the City with a lawsuit. And then, when things got really bad, well…” And Jones just shut up, looking down at his lap.
“Please, Raheem,” Andi realized she hadn’t been breathing, “Please go on.”
“The Director said it was like a light. But that it also had a sound to it. Like a scream maybe. She—she doesn’t remember the events clearly. But then the parents were, um, in comas. There was blood coming from their ears and mouths and… Police were on the scene and paramedics, and then somehow things got kicked upstairs really quickly and, um, the kid was taken away.” He looked up at Andi with a terrible guilt in his eyes. “We tried to find out what happened to him! Our lawyer has taken it higher and higher but they’re all talking national security and privileged files and we’re getting nowhere!”
He started drumming his fingers on the pile of reports by his chair. “So yeah, Homeland Security. We have to report all details on any mutant client … and we won’t do that because it violates our privacy policies. So for now, as far as mutant kids go, it’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. I’m sorry.”
Andi didn’t know what to say, she was shaking with fury, she realized. “And that’s it? A group of children in need, a new minority, and the City of New York says ‘fuck you’? Do you know how scared they must be?” She had risen from her chair and was pacing the small room in tight circles. “They suddenly have these—these abilities! They’re suddenly aliens in their own family! They’re afraid they’re going to hurt someone and we aren’t rushing to help!” She had cornered Jones. “That’s criminal! That’s a complete abrogation of our…”
“Don’t you think I know that?” He shouted back, rising to face her. “Our hands are tied!” He sat again and gestured for her to do the same.
“But isn’t anyone doing anything? I have a kid in need! I told him I’d help. Today!” She realized her tone had gone whiny and, embarrassed, she took her seat and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.
Jones reached forward and put a hand on hers. “There’s a clinic in Poughkeepsie: private, expensive. Run by a Doctor Christian Turcott. They say if you send your mutant kid there, they will help him or her control their powers; suppress them, maybe. I don’t know if I trust them. They got their program together awfully quickly. The pamphlets are slick as hell but short on details so I don’t know…”
“Turcott, okay. Is there anything else? Anyone you do trust?”
“Maybe. His name is Charles Xavier. He used to teach in your department at Columbia; back in the 60s or 70s, I think. He’s been talking to various levels of government about mutants and their problems, their rights. He’s keeping it pretty backdoor now, but his name is getting around. Maybe you could talk to him?”
“Okay. Xavier. Someone at the Department must have a contact number. Raheem, I’m sorry I blew up. I just want to help this kid…”
“I know. Don’t worry, some of the worst arguments we have here at the Center are because we all want to help more. But sometimes we have to make the decisions that will benefit the largest number of clients. Realpolitik.”
“Well, someone’s got to take care of the others.” Andi said with determination.
Raheem smiled a little at that. “Ah, a Crusader! A lot of us start as Crusaders, Andi. Let’s hope the system doesn’t wear your grit off too quickly.”
Bobby ran into the cafeteria at 12:15, navigating the chaos-made-flesh-and-grease of the cavernous space. He found Mike Haddad sitting with Paul Greenstein and assorted other boys up in the corner by the stage. He noticed, not for the first time, the way that Mike had become the de facto center of the group. The other boys threw sideways glances at Mike when they said something they thought was especially clever or uniquely repulsive to see if he approved. Whenever a plan was hatched, there was a space made for his final word. So when Bobby squeezed himself into a place across from Mike and Mike stopped his conversation to smile and greet him, it made him feel, well, special.
“Hey, Bobby.” Mike said with a nod.
Greenstein gave Bobby a punch on the shoulder and shouted over the cafeteria din, “They said you were sick today. Your mom called and everything.”
“I’m feeling better,” Bobby replied, stealing a ketchup-soaked fry from Greenstein’s plate. “So I came in.”
Greenstein looked incredulous. “But your mom gave you a ‘get out of jail free card’ for the whole day, fool! Why bother getting out of bed?”
Bobby looked away sheepishly and said, “I told you guys yesterday that I’d have lunch with you today. So, um, here I am.” He looked up at Mike who looked him right in the eye and smiled. Bobby straightened and shot back at Greenstein, “There’s more to life than jacking off in bed all day!”
“News to me,” snorted Greenstein and shoved a fistful of bright red fry mash into his gaping mouth.
“Bobby, let’s get out of here. I gotta talk to you about something,” said Mike rising from the bench and picking up his empty lunch tray. Bobby grabbed his backpack and followed.
“Hey, Haddad,” shouted Greenstein, his lips red with ketchup, “You were gonna lend me your math notes!”
“I already put them in your binder, Paul,” Mike said. “And I want them back at 3:30!”
“Whatever,” mumbled Greenstein by way of thanks.
Bobby stopped at the cafeteria line to buy a generic white-bread and cellophane tuna sandwich and a bag of chips. He wolfed them down before they had even left the building, like he hadn’t eaten in a week. They walked off the school grounds into the surrounding neighborhood of ordered lawns and little castles. Bobby found himself wondering what dramas were unfolding behind all the anonymous walls with their rose trellises and fresh stucco. Marriages were falling apart, kids were shooting up heroin, hatreds and disappointments were multiplying; all under a veneer of vacant smiles and the latest designer homilies.
They were walking in silence, enjoying the sunshine after the relentless rain of the last few days. But despite the return of spring, Bobby found himself replaying the terrible events of the previous night in his head. It didn’t seem real… the hysterics of his family, the horror of the ice, Andi on the chatline and the meeting he was supposed to have with her later that day. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
Maybe I’m crazy, he thought. Maybe none of it happened. But if he could dismiss it all as a horrible nightmare, the one thing he couldn’t dismiss was the feeling of the ice—the way the powerful waves of cold had flowed from him. He knew it was not something outside, or something done to him. It was him. The power had come from him and was part of him. He was the monster in his own nightmare; uncontrollable, deadly…
“Hey, Drake, heads up!” Mike grabbed a basketball that was lying at the foot of a driveway and made a hard pass to Bobby who woke from his reverie just in time to snag it. Mike took off up the driveway towards the hoop above the garage door and Bobby whooped as he began dribbling up court towards him, fighting for an angle as Mike blocked, both boys intense and laughing. Bobby took his shot and Mike knocked the ball out of the air, retrieving it with a quick spin and sending it aloft for his two points.
“I’m heading for the NBA, Drake! Don’t get in my way!” Mike crowed as they marched back down the driveway. With a light toss, he threw the ball up into the middle of the lawn so whatever kid lived there wouldn’t lose it.
“Yeah, right,” returned Bobby, “Like your parents would let you do that instead of med school.”
“What about you? What do you want to do? You used to be all into Biology; I thought you’d be coming to Yale with me.”
“Right! I’m not a scion of the wealthy, Haddad. My family can’t afford Yale. Anyway, I don’t know what I… I don’t want to think that far ahead. I just want to survive the year, okay?” They had come to a small park at the end of the street and they climbed up to sit on the flat top of a small, worn monument that had been dedicated to some local hero from the Korean War.
“I’m worried about you, man.” Mike said seriously, fixing Bobby with too much intensity.
Bobby threw his hand across his forehead in a melodramatic gesture and declaimed in falsetto, “Oh! I’m worried about you, Bobby! Ever since the war, you haven’t been the same!”
“Stop it, Drake,” said Mike and Bobby deflated a bit. “You can hide out from your other friends all you like, but I know what’s up with you. Your fucking parents want to kill each other, they don’t need to bring you down, too.”
“Shut up,” Bobby said weakly, but there was no power behind the words. They sat in silence, their feet swinging a bit before he continued. “I kept believing that things were gonna get better, Mike. That they were gonna—fuck—be okay again. But it’s getting worse. Shit’s happening. Bad shit. And I don’t think it’ll ever get better. I’m doomed, man.”
He realized he was on the verge of tears, on the verge of saying things that even Mike wouldn’t forgive. And he couldn’t afford to lose everything and everyone now. So he punctured the dangerous mood of compassion and confession with the other half of the melodrama. Raising a manly fist across his chest, he lowered his voice and boomed, “I’m doomed, Dolores! The Drake family is cursed unto the seventh generation!”
Mike laughed and said, “So, listen, I want to ask you something. My parents are going to Beirut for three weeks for their business. You wanna come live at my place? Get away from your folks for a while?”
“What? No, I-I’m okay! I don’t need you to…”
“It’s not just for you. My mom thinks I shouldn’t be alone that whole time. She thinks I’ll be lonely and shit. And if you were there, we could study for exams together.”
“Your mom wants two 15-year-old boys tearing up her house while they’re away?” Bobby was getting excited despite his worries; the idea of not hearing the fights anymore, of not dealing with his parents was like a dream. “Doesn’t she know our generation can’t be trusted? We’re, like, drug addicts and pimps and everything!”
“I know! Rap music has polluted our virtue. Our parents stayed pure by only listening to Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond.” Mike laughed, “Don’t worry, we’ll be under the stern eye of The Dark Lord, Angelica!” The image of the Haddads’ short, sunny Filipina housekeeper as a kind of Darth Vader cracked Bobby up.
“You’re serious? Your mom wants me to stay over?” He hated to sound so excited and uncool, but it was really pretty awesome.
“Yeah, and if you say yes, she’ll call your mom and discuss it. So what do you say? Yes?”
Bobby thought, maybe it won’t happen again. I don’t feel the hot and cold waves today. Maybe that was it! One time and I got it out of my system. “Well, if my mom says it’s okay…”
“Awesome! Hey, it’s almost two, we gotta get to Spanish!” He jumped off the monument with a war-cry and broke into a run across the parkette, shouting: “¿Excúseme, señor, es esta su berenjena?”
“No, mi berenjena es más grande que éste,” yelled back Bobby as he also launched himself into the air and ran after his friend, feeling hope for the first time in weeks.
“Hello?” The man who answered the phone sounded young to Andi, but there was something intimidating about his voice, as if everyone who phoned was an annoyance. Or maybe she was just projecting her own doubt about this call. Maybe she was encountering her own fear and prejudice as she got closer to the world of mutants.
“Um, yes, I’d like to speak to Doctor Charles Xavier, if I could.”
“The Professor is very busy today. What is it you want to discuss with him?”
Clearly the young man was a guard-dog whom she would have to appease if she were to get to Xavier. She wondered why a retired psychology professor would be thus guarded. “My name is Andi Murakami. I’m a graduate student in the Psychology Department at Columbia. Professor Bernstein at the school gave me Dr. Xavier’s number. They were colleagues for many years. I’m doing research in the area of mutant youth and I understand he’s one of the world’s great experts on the subject.” Sound confident, drop names and sprinkle with flattery, she thought. The recipe for successful schmoozing.
There was a pause as the guard-dog chewed this over. “One moment please, I’ll see if the professor is available.”
Andi heard the phone put down on a table top and the sound of feet receding. No hold button. It’s not an office, she thought. After a couple of minutes, she heard a click and a warm, confident voice said, “Thank you, Scott. I’ve got it in here.” There was a further clunk as the other extension was hung up and the—no other word for it— professorial voice continued, “This is Charles Xavier, how may I help you?”
“Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Professor. My name is Andi Murakami. I’m a graduate student in psychology at Columbia and I have… um, I’m in need of some advice. About mutants.” She paused. It was amazing how fraught the word “mutant” suddenly felt. Under other circumstances, she could be triggering people into a sudden onslaught of ill-considered, prejudiced ranting. But to someone who knew mutants well or—now here was a thought—actually was a mutant, might she be saying something unwittingly insulting? Was there already a politically-correct term she didn’t know that she should be using?
“Go on, Ms. Murakami,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, adopting a tone of calm interest that she already recognized as that of the trained psychologist.
“I-I run an Internet chatroom for teens in divorcing families. Last night, I got into a chat with a 15-year-old who told me he was… he thought he was a mutant. He indicated that he had no one to tell and that he was scared he would be discovered. He was worried about the consequences to him, perhaps from his family.” She realized she was relieved to be sharing this burden with someone else. The feeling of isolated impotence had been an unaccustomed and uncomfortable one for her. “I told him I would chat with him again today; actually in about an hour. I–I promised him I’d have some answers for him. Professor, what can I tell him?”
“First of all, Andi, regarding whether he is or is not a mutant: in my experience, few people make a mistake about such an integral piece of identity, so let’s go forward on the assumption that he has, indeed manifested a mutation. We are in the early days of public understanding that there is indeed a small segment of the population who are mutants and the reaction on the street is mostly one of fear and misinformation.
“Your young man will likely have heard this misinformation rather than clear facts. He will have heard that mutants are a threat and a danger to those around them. He will perhaps have heard some of the worst lies: that mutants, in addition to possessing varied, often considerable powers, also lack a fundamental humanity. There are those who are saying they are born into human families but, like cuckoos or, more mythically, changelings, do not belong to those families and cannot be trusted.”
Andi had heard such thoughts coming from more reactionary news sources and had ignored them the way she ignored inflammatory anti-immigrant ravings, but she suddenly intuited just how the rise of a mutant population could be greeted by a scared, under-educated populace. “What do the Religious Right have to say, Professor?”
“There is no unified answer coming from the various fundamentalist camps, but some see the hand of the Devil in the birth of mutant children and some equate mutant powers with possession. It is a very volatile situation that some children are manifesting into. What do you know about your client?”
“Oh, he’s not my…” but, she supposed that Bobby was now, indeed her client. “Very little, I suppose. He seems bright. You can tell surprisingly quickly in chat who is more or less literate and he seems to be well-educated and intellectually engaged.”
“And you said he’s from the Boston area?” Xavier inquired.
“Boston? No, I didn’t say…”
“No, no! Of course not. I was—thinking about something else, I’m sorry.” He seemed flustered for a minute. “I don’t have much to offer you, I regret. I have been encouraging various social agencies at the federal, state and municipal levels to begin preparing for the needs of this population. But I’ve had to tread carefully. If I’m not careful to whom I speak, my words just serve to inflame rather than inform. My worst fear is that I inadvertently create the environment for political opportunism. I meet the politician to encourage support for mutants and leave having made them a new enemy.”
Andi felt a wave of hopelessness “So, what do I tell my client?”
Xavier, perhaps sensing he had dampened her spirit, brightened his tone: “Now, don’t think nothing is happening. Some forward-thinking agencies are creating peer-support groups for mutants in centers large enough to have a meaningful population. We don’t actually know how many mutants there are, but even in a city the size of New York, we believe there may be fewer than fifty young mutants. Unfortunately, even in such relatively enlightened districts, there is institutional fear within the social service sector.”
“So I discovered,” Andi said ruefully.
Xavier continued, his voice intensifying. “What we need is enthusiastic young professionals and academics like you making their voices heard.”
“Me? No, Professor, my research is into effects of divorce on youth… I’ve devoted the past year to…”
“Yes, yes, and I’m sure you’ve done good work in a well-trodden field, Ms. Murakami… Andi. But stop and think for a moment. The psychology and sociology of mutants is new ground. If one acted quickly, one could make quite a name for him or herself.”
Andi fell silent. She suddenly saw a vision of published papers, of speaking appearances. The word “Doctor” flared suddenly in front of her name as she was introduced to an audience who were drawn to the conference out of curiosity and, perhaps, a sense of currency, urgency, to hear what they could from an expert in a vital new field… She returned abruptly to the here and now, shaking her head to clear the siren-like visions. The crafty old bastard, she thought, he did that on purpose; appealed to my vanity. But she had to admit, there was truth in his words. The ambitious part of her felt opportunity beckoning.
She spoke up at last and realized he had been waiting patiently for her to do so. “Professor, I’d like to meet you, if I may. To discuss further options… for my client.”
“Gladly, Andi,” the calm voice replied and she could feel his smile through the phone. “Andi, about this client. You said you felt he was bright. I am, as it happens, starting up a preparatory school for mutants in the Fall. Enrollment will be extremely limited at first. I would be interested in speaking to this young man, if he would agree to it, to see if he would be an acceptable candidate.”
“Oh. Wow. Um, I’ll mention it to him.” She smiled; now she actually had some hope to offer Bobby.
“Actually, I need to ask for some discretion on your part. I plan to keep a low profile for this school. I do not need protest or worse to interfere with the lives of these students. Andi, I feel I can trust you on this matter. Tell your client that I wish to speak with him, if possible, but not about what.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you for your help.”
“Not at all. It is I who am looking forward to meeting you. Ms. Murakami, we have much work to do! Good day.” And without waiting for her reply, he abruptly hung up.
Andi stood holding the phone, feeling full of hope and a sense of mission. Then the phone beeped angrily at her, demanding to be re-cradled. Startled, she put it down and only then said to herself, Hey, wait a minute! I’ve just been recruited!
At 4:10, Bobby turned the key to the lock and right away felt his stomach lurch. Great, he thought, I’m allergic to my own house now. Maybe no one was home. Maybe he could get in and up to his room without having to actually talk to any of the Drakes. But his hopes were dashed by a voice from living room.
“Bobby? Hi, honey, I’m in here!”
He didn’t answer and instead of turning right into the living room, went straight ahead to the kitchen. His stomac, he realized, was telling him to eat more. Despite the lunch he had consumed, despite the bag of chips on the way out of school, he found himself loading up a plate with a cold chicken wing from the fridge, an apple, a pile of crackers and two cheese sticks. Weird, he thought absently. He began devouring the apple greedily as he slouched into the living room where his mother sat at the antique writing desk that looked out onto the garden. She smiled brightly in a way he didn’t want to see at the moment.
“My God, you’d think you were starving to death,” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you have lunch?”
“Just hungry, mom,” he replied cooly as he noticed the textbooks and stapled stacks spread out before her. Her real estate license. She was still studying for that damn thing.
“Mom, did you get a phone call?” he asked.
“What do you mean, Bobby? From the school?”
“No, never mind. I’ve gotta go study.” He turned from her, no doubt leaving her confused and worried, but she was always confused and worried. And he just didn’t feel like bringing up Mike’s offer until he had to. What if she had a million questions for him? What if she didn’t want him to go?
Up in his room, Bobby found himself sinking deeper into fury. The fucking real estate liscence! He hated his mother for her careful preparations and selfish dreams. She’s still married and she’s already planning her new little life. He could see a picture of her in his mind as the energetic single working mom, trotting out him and Ronny to show off to clients. “My husband left us and look how well I’m doing! I’m Supermom!” It made him sick. Bobby took a kind of cruel satisfaction in imagining that moment in front of the client when he would calmly say, ‘I’m a mutant, did you know that?’ and how his mother would blanch and run away crying.
Mutant. It was the first time all day he’d even let the word cross his mind. Bobby’s brain seemed to stop for a moment—to skip a beat and stutter liked a scratched CD before it found its mark again on a different track altogether.
But I’m not a mutant, he calmly explained to himself, sitting at his computer, calling up a Flash game where he had to round-up green, bug-like creatures into a holding pen and incinerate them before they could escape and spread. I’m definitely not.
So what happened last night? responded a rational corner of his brain. But Bobby was ready for just that kind of question. Who knows exactly? But it was probably some kind of cosmic phenomenon. Or a weather anomaly maybe? Yes! A freak ice storm in April. Caused by global warming. And if I think I caused it, I must be some kind of lunatic egomaniac. What if said I caused the tsunami in the Pacific, too? That’d be crazy, right?
He blasted two or three of the bugs with his cattle prod weapon as they tried to break free. The time was 4:37. Every minute that had passed since 4:30 had been an agony of guilt. He could feel Andi waiting for him somewhere in cyberland. But what was he going to tell her after she spent all day researching mutants for him? He wasn’t a mutant! It wasn’t his fault.
He lost his concentration and the bugs took over, filling the screen and chirping hostilely at him as they danced their alien victory dance.
“Shit!” he shouted at the screen and typed the URL with loud angry keystrokes. The Staying 2Gether chat interface opened before him like an accusation. He checked to see who was logged in: DarkPrincess, gundamboy and, yes, beenthere, Andi’s nickname. He felt his heart racing and his underarms sweating up. This is stupid! Just tell her it was a mistake!
Welcome! You have entered [2gether] at 4:39 pm
[2gether]: StoneCold has entered at 4:39 pm
[beenthere] 4:39 pm> so how does he talk about your mom when you stay with him?
[DarkPrincess] 4:40 pm> nuthing bad. just kind of growls a lot.
[gundamboy] 4:41 pm> Stone! beenthere is here. he’s looking 4 u.
[beenthere] 4:41 pm> Hi stonecold
[DarkPrincess] 4:41 pm> hey stone
[StoneCold] 4:42 pm> She. beenthere’s a girl. woman. right?
[beenthere] 4:43 pm> right. u guys mind? stone and i have some business
[gundamboy] 4:43 pm> Stone, gina was on forevr looking 4 u. shes all worryed and shit.
[beenthere] 4:44 pm> i’ll send him right back 2 u, gundamboy. Stonecold, i’ll exit and create a room for us. then you type “<enter coldroom>”, ok?
[StoneCold] 4:45 pm> ok
[2gether]> [beenthere] has left at 4:45 pm
[DarkPrincess] 4:46 pm> evrything cool, StoneCold?
[gundamboy] 4:46 pm> u dating beenthere?
[StoneCold] 4:47 pm> it’s nothing guys. just talk. tell gina i’m ok, gundam
[StoneCold] 4:47 pm> <enter coldroom>
[2gether]> [StoneCold] has left at 4:45 pm
Welcome! You have entered [coldroom] at 4:45 pm
[coldroom]: StoneCold has entered at 4:45 pm
[beenthere] 4:48 pm> you made it!
[StoneCold] 4:48 pm> nice place you got here. u decorate yourself?
[beenthere] 4:49 pm> LOL. u like the lava lamps?
[StoneCold] 4:49 pm> nice.
[beenthere] 4:50 pm> I’ve had a very interesting day, Bobby. Learning a lot about mutants
[StoneCold] 4:50 pm> Listen. I have something to tell u
[beenthere] 4:51 pm> But I don’t have all the answers for u yet. I’m sorry
[beenthere] 4:51 pm> what. what do u want to tell me?
[StoneCold] 4:52 pm> I think I made a mistake. I’m not a mutant, Andi
[beenthere] 4:52 pm> are you saying you made up what you told me, Bobby?
[StoneCold] 4:53 pm> No! I was confused. Some bad stuff happened. Fight with the family and I was attacked by this dog. There was a freak ice storm.
[beenthere] 4:54 pm> Ice storm in late April? Are you up north? Northern Canada?
[StoneCold] 4:54 pm> look. I’m really really sorry I wasted your time but I’m just not. A mutant. That’s good news isn’t it?
[beenthere] 4:55 pm> Bobby, it just sounds strange. Are you sure?
[StoneCold] 4:56 pm> I guess i would know, wouldn’t I?! Thank you really for all your help but I have a lot to sort out now. Maybe you can help some other mutant kids with this information. It must really suck to be like that. But I’m not, Andi.
[beenthere] 4:57 pm> Bobby, I’m going to give you my e-mail address. If you need my help, I want you to use it.
[StoneCold] 4:57 pm> I don’t. don’t need your help.
[beenthere] 4:58 pm>Please write it down, Bobby. andimura@gmail.com Have you got it?
[StoneCold] 4:58 pm> yes. wrote it down. but I don’t need it
[beenthere] 4:59 pm> then just say hi some time. You seem like a nice guy.
[StoneCold] 5:00 pm> I gotta go.
[coldroom]> [StoneCold] has left at 5:00 pm
Bobby leaned back hard in the chair, making the springs squeak ominously. Fuck her! he thought. Why don’t adults ever believe me? He scrunched up his eyes and punched his shoulder to keep himself angry, to stop himself from crying like a kid. Everything is working out great! I don’t need anyone’s help!
Watching the screen, he saw that Gina had entered 2gether. That annoyed him, too. He didn’t want anyone else worried about him. It felt like the whole world was conspiring to make his life into a Degrassi episode. If his parents divorced, they divorced. It happened all the time to kids. If he was failing at school, he just had to get back to work. Stop whining. With a bit of hard work, he could be a top student like Mike and join him at Yale on a scholarship. He imagined them together in a dorm with really cool posters on the wall, going to see concerts and hanging out at campus pubs. Two desks, two beds, best buddies forever. He felt himself getting an erection and put a hand down the front of his pants, holding himself, feeling his confidence returning.
“Bobby?” his mother said quietly from the other side of the door, giving two short knocks before she turned the doorknob. Bobby pulled his hand out of his pants and untucked his shirt so it would cover his hard-on. He heard her come in behind him.
“Hi, Mom,” he said with forced cheer, opening up a word-processing window. “I’m just getting an English essay going.”
“That’s good, honey. Bobby, I just got a call from Barbara Haddad. She said you and Mike had talked about you going to stay at their place for a while. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot, Mom. He asked me today. If you don’t want me to, it’s okay.”
“No, no, I think it’s an excellent idea! We all have so much to think about these days, don’t we? And maybe if you were away a bit…”
Bobby was suddenly very unsure. He looked into her face and all he could see was a succession of masks. Did she want him to go? Maybe she thought he was the problem in the family. Maybe she knew he was a… but he wasn’t! He looked at her again, but her mind had already wandered off. Look at that, he thought. She doesn’t care. She barely knows I exist half the time!
“Oh Bobby,” she suddenly blurted out. “You know the Kincaid’s dog, Trixie? The poor thing seems to have had a heart attack last night! They found her dead by the pool when they woke up this morning. Why, she wasn’t more than four years old! Life is just so… so arbitrary, you know?”
Bobby stiffened. I didn’t kill her, he thought instantly. It was an ice storm and the dog died of a heart attack! Purebred dogs have congenital conditions sometimes. But it was all too vivid, here in this room, here in this house. He would get away and start that new life he was thinking about.
“I’m gonna do it, Mom. I’m going to stay with Mike. It’s just for a couple of weeks, right? You’ll be okay, right?”
“Me? Of course, honey! You do what’s right for you! Don’t worry about us.” She was staring at him suddenly with a kind of intensity he found humiliating. Her eyes were large and moist. “Oh, look what an old sap your mom is! I’m tearing up about that silly dog.” She abruptly turned away, straightening her sweater. “I’ve got to get dinner ready, Bobby. You work on your English paper. Oh, and tuck your shirt in.”
Mike and his parents were waiting in the Drakes’ driveway, their Lexus idling quietly as Madeline checked that Bobby had all of his bags, like he was departing on a space shuttle mission instead of moving two miles away for three weeks.
“Mom, if I’m missing anything you’ll drive it over! Or I’ll borrow whatever from Mike.”
“Bobby, you listen to me!” She said, straightening his windbreaker on him. “I do not want to hear from Barbara Haddad that you and Mike caused any trouble. That means no friends over without the housekeeper’s permission, no parties. You go to sleep at a reasonable hour and do your homework before watching videos or playing games, is that clear?” She reached up and started patting his curls into place.
Bobby shielded his head. “Mom, quit it! They’re watching! My hair is fine. And yes, I’ll be a perfect Little Lord Fontleroy!”
“Oh, Bobby, I’m going to miss you. You and your stubborn, surly mouth!” She laughed.
“Hey,” Bobby suddenly asked, looking over her shoulder into the house. “Isn’t Ronny coming down?”
“I don’t think so, Bobby. I think he’s kind of sad that you’re going. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”
Bobby suddenly felt devastated. In all the build-up to his departure, he hadn’t noticed that Ronny wasn’t really talking to him. He looked out to the Haddads, waving and yelled, “Just one sec, okay? Sorry!” and ran into the house.
Ronny was lying on his stomach on his carpeted floor, drawing a dragon with colored pencils in the big newsprint sketchbook their parents had bought him on his birthday last month. He didn’t look up when Bobby came in.
“Hey, Ronny, I’m going now.” Bobby said from the door.
“So?” said his brother and kept drawing.
“I thought you’d come down and say goodbye,” Bobby said, softening his voice.
“Bye,” said Ronny and made a show of concentrating even harder on his drawing. Bobby squatted on the floor in front of him and put a hand on Ronny’s head.
“I’ll just be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“Fine. Just leave me here. I don’t care.” Ronny’s voice was getting tighter and less audible.
“I’m not leaving you, Ronny,” Bobby said a bit desperately. “Mike asked me to stay with him. His mom asked me!”
Ronny suddenly looked up at Bobby with an anger the older boy had never seen on his face. “You’re going to just leave me here with them! With him! You don’t care, you’ll be out of the house. You don’t care what happens to me!” and with that he shoved Bobby who lost his balance and rolled back onto his ass. Ronny started crying. “Just go! Your new family is waiting for you!”
“They’re not my… You’re my… Oh, forget it!” Bobby got to his feet. “I’ve got to go, Ronny, okay? I have no choice. There’s stuff you don’t understand! I can’t be here anymore!”
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!” Ronny screamed in a voice so high and raw that Bobby got goosebumps.
From downstairs, he heard his mother calling, “Bobby? Ronny? Is everything okay?”
Bobby ran past her as she climbed the stairs. She called after him, “He’s upset, Bobby. I’ll talk to him. You better go.”
He turned at the door and watched her disappear into the upper hall. He then caught sight of his father, standing at the entrance to the living room. The two looked at each other across the foyer and they might as well have been standing on two buttes in the desert, a mile apart. Neither seemed able to muster the breath it would take to shout across the chasm. Jealousy, anger, loss welled inside Bobby. Without another word, he turned and left the Drake household.
Bobby could have chosen from two guestrooms in the Haddad’s rather palatial home. In fact, they even had a small apartment over their separate three car garage that stood on the wide curved driveway within the graceful brick walls that enclosed their property. But instead, he took Mike’s offer of the second bed in his room that used to be occupied by the older Haddad son who was off at university in Switzerland.
It was already after 11 on a school night, but the two were excitedly talking in the dark about plot holes in the horror movie they had just watched.
Bobby felt wide awake, the images of gore and mayhem making him smile. “It got so lame, though—the old cop spying on him all the time. If he thought that guy was the murderer, he would have just arrested him.”
“No, he couldn’t!” answered Mike, off to his right in the dark. “He was disgraced on the force. They thought he was nuts.”
Bobby could see the strange shapes in the dim light of the large bedroom and tried to figure what each was: computer printer, skis, dresser. Mike’s aquarium bubbled quietly in the corner and the furnace sounded different than the one at the Drake house. The sheets on the bed were smooth, as opposed to the flannels he was used to and they hissed whenever he moved. It was thrilling to be somewhere new!
“But anyway,” Bobby concluded, “that stuff doesn’t really matter so much. It was a really cool movie.”
“Oh, I know,” Mike agreed. “The logic of horror movies is the relentless logic of death.”
Bobby cracked up, “You did not just make that up!”
Mike sounded wounded, “Did I say I did? It’s from this book I got last week: ‘Memento Mori: the Passions of Horror Films.’ I’ll show it to you tomorrow. Hey, let’s go to sleep; it’s late. I’m glad you’re here, Bobby.”
Bobby felt buoyant, freer than he had in months. He believed he could handle it all now. His life was going to get better starting tonight. “Me too, Mike. Good night.”
“Don’t snore, Drake.”
“Don’t fart, Haddad.” They snickered in the dark.
The castle stood alone and deserted in the cold world. The wind howled terribly and Bobby could only continue his approach if he stayed low, sheltered by the short brick wall that traversed the wasteland. He looked up nervously at the tower high above but the bald man was nowhere to be seen. He breathed easier thinking ‘I can do this!’ when suddenly the man was standing there, not twenty feet away, off to his left. He seemed to emanate a mist that obscured his features, but Bobby recognized the smooth head, the slim build, and most of all the featureless eyes that burned through him with a gaze that missed nothing, that saw all his faults and secrets.
“What do you want?” Bobby asked the still figure whom, he realized was actually floating a few feet off the hard ground. “Why are you here?”
“Do not refuse it, Bobby,” the figure said. “It is your gift. Accept it or be destroyed by it.”
Bobby stammered, at a loss for words. Denials sprung to his lips and died away. He felt ashamed. Suddenly a terrible howling, high, raw and louder than the wind filled the air and he turned towards the castle in time to see the dog-beast galloping towards him with a terrible, almost lustful rage in its eyes, teeth bared, saliva splashing.
“Quickly,” the floating figure yelled. “You must save yourself! Save us both!”
The beast was closing in, the size of a horse, its raw flanks stinking.
“How?!” screamed Bobby over the howling wind, “What can I do? I’m just a freshman!”
“The Ice,” shouted back the bald figure. “Use the ice!!”
Bobby turned back to the beast who lowered himself on steely limbs and launched into the air, flying thirty feet up and then turning effortlessly to dive down on Bobby. The boy screamed and raised his hands, the familiar wave of powerful cold leaping from his belly, from this groin, from the deepest parts of him out through his fingers and spraying the beast in icy death even as it closed in for the kill.
With a terrible roar, the great creature crashed to the ground before him, scattering shards of ice. Bobby turned to the floating man who simply smiled and vanished.
Bobby looked back at the beast and it was no longer so huge. In fact, as he approached the body, encased in its deadly sheath of glass, it seemed to shrink, to grow pitiful and frail until, at last, as he looked down into its face, he realized it was his brother Ronny he had killed.
Bobby sat up in bed, gasping. He panicked, looking around the strange space until he remembered where he was. You’re okay, he told himself. You’re with Mike. Ronny’s safe at home. It was just a dream. He was still panting heavily and that’s why he noticed it. His breath. He could see his breath misting in front of him. And on the edge of the blanket, where his hands had been gripping it, a pale sheet of frost glistened in the attenuated night light of the room.
He felt under the covers and the slippery frost was everywhere, as if his body had sweated ice. And if the horror of this waking dream wasn’t bad enough, he could feel, deep inside, the same horrific, powerful feeling that had that come on last week and grown and grown until it had become the night of the ice, the murder of Trixie. He had tried to deny it but what he felt in the dream was truth. The power was inside him, like a monster in a castle, and it would get out no matter how he tried to stop it. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
Desperately trying to keep his teeth from chattering and waking Mike, he climbed out of bed. He wrapped the blanket around himself, and tiptoed out of the room and down to the living room, decorated in a mixture of the colorful orientalism of Lebanon and the stolidity of Upper Middle Class Boston. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly in the still night, showing twenty minutes after four as he crept past it, shaking. He sat in a corner of the immense, satin-draped couch, legs pulled up to his chest and endured the waves of hot and cold that moved through him like torture, wondering what would happen when he lost control again. Wondering who would die this time.
I’m a mutant, he said to himself. Over and over, I’m a mutant, a mutant…
He slept no more that night.
On to Chapter 3...
