Continued from yesterday:
Some things were easy. Underwear drawer, take out and tip wholesale into box. T-shirt drawers, remove and follow a similar plan. Four or five times. Squish, seal, stack. Onto the next box. Socks, nighties, dressing gown, towelling robe… and from her wardrobe, three long garment covers, where her work clothes - the only three dresses she used - usually rested. Lather, rinse, repeat. Her hidden workbooks - essential for her sanity and sorted by date - went under a pile of toys from atop Vincent.
One box held nothing but cables.
Another box contained some of the more resillient and smaller Vincent-bits, whereas the monitor and case would just go along wholesale.
Ray picked up her Lost Hope Chest.
“Oh, and when you get down there, again, could you make sure Eileen can get aboard?"
"It’s going to be a tight squeeze, miss."
"I’m easily capable of fitting myself into small spaces,” she smiled. “I compact rather well."
Ray gave her his patented I-didn’t-think-that-was-very-amusing-and-neither-should-you glare, mixed with a dash of exasperation. But then again, he’d been the one who had to come to school and extract her from the desk cupboard in question.
Next on the list of movables - Chuckie. He would travel with her in his hamster ball, that was the easy part.
The hard part was packing his warren, his toys, and the sundry other hamster paraphernalia. Especially without squashing his little kennel in the process.
And after she solved that particular problem, she’d have to dissassemble her shelves.
Yike.
No wonder the process of moving house was as traumatic as a death in the family.
~
Professor Charles Xavier had been in awkward conversations, before, but this one had turned almost embarrassingly painful when the assembled women had realised he was both Old Money and *single*. Quite a few of them - and he was certain because of his telepathy - were toting up the time and expenditure necessary for a divorce so they could outdo Jaquelline and wed a millionaire.
Jaquelline Adrien, of course, had already married a millionaire, and actually loved her husband with a kind of brutal competativeness.
Love, for all these women, was a competition.
He could see the pattern with the varying daughters. Girls who excelled at their mothers’ rather limited set of high standards were praised and groomed for higher goals. And as for the ‘failures’… he’d seen what 'failing’ had done to Sara. And the peculiar dynamic of the entire -well- tribe seemed to be that love was only availlable for one person at a time.
Sara had obviously been taught to have a more encompassing heart by her father’s side of the family… but in her mother’s eye, she was a rival.
At around this point, Charles actually noticed the room.
It was a monument to faded beauty and fleeting fame. Trophies, carefully arranged according to priority, sat preserved in a display case. News clippings accompanied original photos, and sometimes, more ameteur photos in tasteful frames. The more memorable events included enlargements.
In this room, Sara had stopped being mentioned when she was five. She was simply edited out of the commentary.
He realised someone had asked him a direct question. "I do beg your pardon, I was a little distracted. My apologies."
"I said, how are the social functions in your -ah- particular area, Professor?"
_Translation, what sort of things will we have to attend in order to gain your attentions?_
"Not very many, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m usually caught up in the day-to-day mundanities of school administration… but I will attempt to make time to attend student recitals.” He smirked to himself, even though he was inundated with images of having to watch thirty-so kids fumble ameteurishly through whatever act they had put together. “I actually find them somewhat amusing.” _And now that I’m safely off their little list of potential second grooms… Jean? You’ve been very quiet, lately._
_Who? Me? I’m just trying to eat this shit sandwitch without gagging._ She broke from her polite smile in order to sip at her carbonated beverage. _Adrians was actually right about something. These women *are* gorgons._ Those thoughts included a play-by-play recollection of an in-house harangue at ground zero.
_Well, say something nice about the Institute before the room gets completely off topic and we have to be subjected to baby photos._
_Eep! Fate worse than death!_ “Speaking of recitals,” Jean chirped, “we were thinking about staging a self-defence exhibition somewhere down the line. Logan’s courses have been a real boon, especially to some of the shyer students.” She smiled winningly at the room. “I can definitely say it helped with my public speaking."
"Logan? You allow your students to address their tutors by *name*?"
"Only if they feel comfortable with it,” said Xavier. “And Logan… has his ways of making one feel comfortable.” _It usually takes the average student twenty-four hours to work out he’s something of a marshmallow,_ Xavier added inwardly.
“So what does he teach? Kung fu? Ju jitsu?"
_Ro cham bo[1]? No…_ "All of the above, and some - unique methods for maintaining personal safety,” Jean smiled. “Logan used to be in the army, at one stage."
The room nodded as one to her explanation. Army men knew how to disarm terrorists with a *spoon*.
_Wow. I’m starting to think I sell them a bridge,_ Jean 'said’.
_We’re all packed,_ Sara sent, loud as a bullhorn, but also obviously trying not to be. _Any time you’re ready._
"Do you have any questions, Mrs Adrien?” Xavier prompted. “About my school?"
"What’s your policy on expulsion?"
[1] South Park reference. Opponents kick each other "square in the nuts” for possession of a contended item.
~~
Charles Xavier understood a great deal more about Sara, and why all four of them felt it necessary to breathe a deep sigh of relief once they passed the gates and headed on out of Manor Hill.
“*Man*,” sighed Jean. “I’m glad my parents are only scared of me."
"Mom’s okay when Dad’s home,” said Sara, in a contorted huddle/tangle amongst the debris plus Todd in the back. “He has a knack for disarming people. Alas, that’s why he’s somewhere in the middle of Russia…” she sighed. “November eleventh. He’ll be home then."
"Yo, you oughta write a book. Be the best tell-all since _Mommy Dearest_,” said Todd.
“Tempting, but I’d get worse.” One of her size thirteen trainers appeared in the rearview mirror. “Can you stop by the Brotherhood place? We still have to pick up Eileen."
"Um. Is that some kind of weird pet?” Jean wondered.
“My bike. I saved her, so I have to look after her."
_Sir?_
_We might as well pick it up, rather than test her enginuity, don’t you think?_
_As long as she doesn’t leave engine parts in the common room, I’ll be fine._ She turned, pulling up at the boarding house, which was looking extravagantly seedy. Mystique was not around, and Magneto had obviously written the Brotherhood off as a bad loss.
That, to use a Sara phrase, would not *do*.
+
Eileen loaded in the back and the van safely underway once more - Todd had leaned out of a portal to assure Lance that he was fine, helping Sara move her stuff, and there was a promise of a skin treatment in the near future - Sara allowed herself to twitch a little as she drank yet another litre of water.
She sincerely hoped that setting up again would be enriching, somehow.
"Oh!” Sara blurted. “I entirely forgot. Where exactly am I staying, Professor?"
"Second floor,” he intoned, “end of the hallway, on the left."
"That’s - *my* room,” said Jean. “Am I moving?"
"No,” said the Professor. “You’re sharing."
Sara went fugue.
~
For Todd, it was a very scary twenty minutes. Sara just - wasn’t at home, and her body twitched in alarming ways. Every now and again, an ugly sound would issue forth as air expelled from her lungs caught her vocal cords.
He didn’t even know he was crying until later. "Come back to me, baby, *please*,” he whispered urgently. “Come back to me. C'mon Sara… you can’t let this beat yo’…” He cajoled and implored in a similar vein for the entire time she was gone. He tried to hold her steady. He tried kissing her cheek. He tried hugging her. He tried brushing her face.
Somewhere on the periphery of his awareness, Baldy and Miss Priss were having an argument.
“All I’m saying is that there are *plenty* of other rooms you could give her."
"I never denied it,” said Xavier. “But you no longer have the excuse of your lack of control. You will have to have a roommate, and Sara happens to need a room."
"But she’s a newb! She’s *loud*!"
"All the more reason for you to maintain your night shields then, wouldn’t you think?"
"You’re doing this to me on purpose! It’s not fair!"
"It’s fairer than the alternative of having something similar happen by accident,” said the Professor. “I know from experience that getting caught without adequate shielding is - painful."
"Shielding, schmielding… do you *know* what she gets up to?"
"Do *you* truly know what she does?"
"Well I heard–"
"Forget rumour, Jean,” interrupted the Professor. “What do you truly know*?"
"Ad– ah… um. Er."
"Exactly. Perhaps you could research her tomorrow? Seperate the truth from the fiction, and produce an analysis thereof."
"We both know there’s no 'perhaps’ about it,” snarled Jean. “You’re going to *make* me."
"Now you’re just being petulant. Really, Jean. I expected more of you."
The van came to an aggressive halt. "Well maybe you just expect too much!” She left the car and slammed the door.
Sara blinked. “Oh, darn. Did I harm anything?"
"Nuttin’ that won’t heal, babe,” he smiled. “You look way better when you’re in charge, y'know."
"Terribly sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just - I never thought I’d be sharing her *airspace*."
Logan opened Baldy’s door. "Trouble in paradise?” he asked.
+
“Jean’s merely confronted with the realisation that she’s set up her own obstacles,” said the Professor. “She’ll face up to the reality of it soon enough."
The burly man grunted at that and, after helping the Professor into his chair, opened up the back of the van. "Damn, Tallwater. How’d you fit yourself in there?"
"I believe it required a shoehorn.”
~
Logan merely grunted. He’d come prepared, this time, with a handcart and the 'volunteered’ services of a few people who needed to be tired out by curfew. This meant Elf, Porcupine, and the kid. At least the kid was a sort of self-made locust swarm of helping hands… even if one random clone seemed to act a little - funny[1].
Tallwater was the obsessive sort of mover who labelled every box.
“All right. One box per move, carry 'em from the bottom, not the handles, and leave the heavy stuff to me. Got it?"
"Yessir!” The assembled group of prankers saluted.
True to form, one of the kid’s clones lifted up a blanket. “What’s under here?"
"That’s Eileen,” said Tallwater, still in the middle of her boxes of stuff. “I sort of rescued her from the junkpile."
The clone made a face, but didn’t say anything nasty.
It was Logan that did the double-take. "Good *God*…” he muttered. An L-579… she was still magnificent, even though she was obviously in a very bad way. “How much’d you get 'er for?"
"Well… I sort of found her in a recycling yard. The watchman said if I could make her go and drive her out of the gate, she was mine for free. So… fifteen hours hard labour plus emotional trauma?"
The bicycle afficionado inside him whimpered and bit his fist. Outside, his face was unreadable. "Sweat equity,” he muttered. “Huh.” He’d had *dreams*, once, of picking up a bike this rare on sweat equity. Tallwater probably didn’t know how much this bike was really worth, to a collector. He laid aside his prejudices, though, and helped wheel the aged scooter into a secure corner or the garage. It would keep.
Meantime, he had an assload of books to cart up to Red’s room. Tallwater had gotten cute. Each box was labelled; 'books’, 'more books’, 'still more books’, 'even more books’ and so on. There was even a 'books 2.0’.
The minute she and Froggy could extract themselves, they did, each picking a box and hauling it like all the others.
One box, he couldn’t help noticing, was labelled, 'shelves’. “Chuck’s got plenty of shelvin’ if you want it, Tallwater."
"I’d rather not waste the resources,” she chirped. “Besides, mother–” twitch “would only throw them out after she discovered my absence. They represent quite a bit of scrounging time, after all."
Even more disturbing was the hope chest, on which she’d added the word 'lost’ at some time in her past. _Chuck’s gonna have a hellovatime with *this* gal._
+
Sara’s cell chirped. Unlisted or restricted number. She hit the talk button. "Sara Louise Adrien."
"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” It was Mother in full warpath mode. “How *DARE* you leave this house without my permission! You wait until your *father* hears about this! I’m calling the authorities!"
Sara put herself in Vulcan mode. "The authorities will doubtless repeat that I am well within my legal rights to live where I choose, Mother. Rest assured that I am safe and well, and will come to no lingering harm. Barring the unforseen, of course."
"You have no right to speak to me like this! I am your *MOTHER*!"
"Yes. You are my mother. As for the rest of it… how can you tell that I do not possess recordings of your - diatribes? I’m certain the authorities would love to hear about your regular verbal abuse."
"This is *blackmail*! After I did *everything* for you! You *ungreatful*–"
"I have to go, mother.” Sara shed a tear from inside the Vulcan mask. “I’m afraid you’re hazardous to my mental health.” She hung up and turned the cellular phone off. Only then, did she allow herself to weep.
[1] Someone, somewhere posited the “one clone is retarded” theorem to Jamie’s multiplication. I’m going with it.
~