Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Kid a Kidder ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Don’t Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat


Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I’ll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa’s “Minion” and “Lady Doom,” which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I’m doing and she’s probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of last chapter this story has joined continuities with the “Minion” saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms!


Chapter 3


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July 6th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

Went to Dr. Grey’s funeral. Some blond woman wearing all white--which really stood out at a funeral, let me tell you--seemed to be really close to Mr. Summers. I asked Kitty about it afterwards, because she was sitting with Miss Munroe and some guy I don’t yet know--hey, poet and didn’t know it--near the front. Kitty said that the woman was Miss Frost, my new teacher for the whole noggin-shielding thing. I said that was very nice of her to be so supportive of Mr. Summers. Kitty just shook her head and said Miss Frost’s intentions were rarely, if ever, trustworthy. I guess I’ll have to figure out for myself, then.

I just miss Dr. Grey. I think I accidentally picked up Sophia’s dreams last night, and I know Dr. Grey wouldn’t have minded if I came to her in the middle of the night for help. Plus, she was a really nice lady. I wish I’d had black clothes to wear to the funeral, but the last time I had a funeral to go to, it was Opa Goldberg’s in Connecticut, and that was back in fifth grade, before the Dweebs were born.

I ended up making do with my navy-blue winter church dress, even though it was too warm for that. It didn’t take a mind-reader to tell Sophia thought I was the height of unfashionable, but I really didn’t care that much. Showing respect to Dr. Grey’s memory was far too important.

I called Sister Justine and told her about the situation, and she agreed that I’d be better off not coming to choir practice tonight. I’m determined to go on Friday, though.

I’m going back to bed and hugging my cat, though I think I’ve run out of tears.

No wait, there’s one.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 7th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

Xavier insisted I get up today and have a session with Miss Frost because, according to him, I’m letting in too many people’s thoughts and am all the more depressed for it. I snarked back that I was already depressed at losing my favorite teacher, so how could he tell? He just gave me this look that I think was supposed to be “knowing,” but came off as constipated. Then he just looked annoyed, which made me certain he was reading my mind without permission, to which I told him to stop being a hypocritical jerk.

I think the angst of this place is getting to me. I will resist. I will not become some soulless soap opera reject. I will succeed in my academic endeavors, earn a fabulously-large scholarship, attend Harvard--or some other excellent institution of higher learning--go to med school, earn my doctorate, become fabulously successful, raspberry Omi Goldberg and my uncles, and never ever again be in need of a handout from anyone. And then I’ll meet Mr. Right and get married and have kids, and live ‘till I’m 150. And somewhere in there I’ll earn the Nobel Peace Prize or something.

Hey, a girl’s gotta dream, right?

Anyway, Miss Frost. Something about her just rubs me wrong, and I don’t like her poking at my shields. I think I’ll end up with superb shields just in a genuine desire to keep her out. I also noticed she smelled oddly like Mr. Summers’ cologne--and before anybody accuses me of being too close to Mr. Summers, remember I was in a small car with just him and Mr. Wagner, who smells faintly of sulfur.

What is going on here at this school?!

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 8th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

Today was awful. Carnation and Lockheed must have gotten into a fight, because I found Carnation doubled-over on Sophia’s bed with a bruised tummy, barfing all over the place. My poor baby! I’d kick Lockheed, but that would just make Kitty mad, and I don’t want my only friend mad at me. Sophia came in then and had a spaz attack over her bedspread. Honestly, there are more important things than some stupid, fluffy, lacy, overblown quilt! My cat is hurt and sick, and besides cat barf comes out in the wash, if you use the right pre-treater. It’s not my fault, or Carnation’s, that Sophia was impractical and brought a dry-clean-only bedspread to a school, of all places.

That girl needs to straighten out her priorities.

Choir practice went well, though I won’t be able to sing with the group at Sunday morning Mass for a few more weeks because I need to finish learning some of the songs that they sing on rotation.

Miss Frost insisted that I come in for another session after choir practice. I’m pretty sure she’s not supposed to riffle through my memories like that, but I actually managed to throw her out, which was a first for me. She seemed shocked, which turned into anger when I stuck out my tongue and scampered out of there.

Hah! I suppose my day ended on a high note. Now I need to get some milk for Carnation, because I heard him throwing up in his litter box a few times during the day already and I think only milk will be gentle enough for his stomach at this point.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 9th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

As it was Saturday, and Miss Frost seems to be avoiding me--yay!--Kitty and I signed out one of the school cars and went into town, Carnation sitting in my lap within his carrier while Kitty drove. I went to the local vet to get Carnation checked out while Kitty went into a book store. I’ll have to ask her how the selection there is, once Carnation’s all better. Particularly since she seems determined to make up for Lockheed being a jerk, and came back with a gift card for the store for me and a “get well soon” card for Carnation.

What a nice friend!

We spent the rest of the day hanging out in the school’s game room with Marie and Bobby, though I stuck to reading a library book on a sofa. I just wish Bobby hadn’t tried to be “funny” and take my glasses; I don’t actually need them for reading, but I do need them to see distances, so I couldn’t grab them back from him. Kitty must have finally realized the problem, because she got them back from Bobby and returned them to me.

I hate having to rely on something other than myself to see, particularly something that’s so easy to lose or have taken away, but I just can’t afford contact lenses, and I hear those are awfully uncomfortable anyway. Maybe when I’m older and I’m a doctor who can pay her own way, I can get laser eye surgery or something. I’m sick of being seen as an easy target. Plus, I’d be able to work faster and more efficiently if I didn’t have to worry about glasses getting broken or smudged or in the way.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 10th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

I drove the car to church this week. On the drive over I asked Mr. Wagner--who has asked me to start calling him Kurt, which is fine with me as long as he’s not one of my teachers--what he’d wanted to do when he grew up, back when he was my age. He said he’d wanted to be a priest, which I can totally see. He has a very kind and caring personality that would suit the priesthood. Then he said, just as we were pulling into the church parking lot, that he’d been a priest for a while, a few years back, but it turned out that the person who ordained him was not themselves a member of the clergy, so he’d stopped acting as a priest.

I freely admit that I spent a good deal of Mass contemplating Kurt’s problem. After all, it’s important to follow the calling God gives you. I’m following my calling by studying hard so I can become a doctor. If Kurt feels called to serve through the priesthood, he really shouldn’t give that up just because of one man’s dishonesty. After all, I’m sure that Kurt did whatever he did as a priest to the best of his understanding of the Divine Plan, helping others and serving as a counselor and the like.

After the service but before either of us went to confession, I stopped him for a bit and asked this:


“So why don’t you enroll in a seminary school and become a priest for real if that’s what you really want to do?” I asked Kurt.

“Vhat about the innocent people I could save as a super hero?”

“Dude, costume-wearing nut jobs are a dime a dozen. What’s far rarer is a compassionate priest or someone who is willing to live by example, and say ‘See, you can have weird powers and even look different, but you can still live your own life doing what you love to do.’ That’s a heck of a lot more valuable than running around in spandex while either directly or indirectly causing property damage.”


...Kurt then just blinked as I gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and scootched out of the church pew. I hope he takes some serious time to think about what I said, because the Church would definitely benefit to have a person as nice as him among their numbers.

On a lighter note, Carnation is doing much better, and I’m so glad I got what little homework I had done on Friday before the barf-on-the-bed incident. I didn’t have time or space before then, and I really needed to relax after that.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 11th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

Back to classes. We actually got some riding done in PE, which was good; I’ve been divided off into the group of advanced students, namely anybody who already knew how to ride and take care of a horse. It also allows me to go riding anytime there aren’t any classes in session, so I can go riding in the afternoons or evenings if I want.

Horror of horrors: it turns out that Miss Frost is my history teacher. I wish I had almost anybody else teaching that subject at the moment, because she blatantly uses her powers to make sure we’re all paying attention and I have yet to repeat my mental chucking her out of my mind bit. I don’t quite remember how I did it before, really, but I wish I did.

I wish there was another trained telepath at the school who isn’t either Xavier or Miss Frost. I wish Dr. Grey were alive. I wish I’d never gotten my powers...

No, I don’t. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Kitty or Marie or Kurt. I like having friends; I never really had any before because I was too shy, and everybody at my old school assumed I was a nerd or stuck up or something because I always focused on studying and not attracting attention. Getting beat up by Samantha Boyer when I refused to do her homework when she offered that as payment for being my friend taught me not to be the first one to offer friendship, or at the very least stake out the situation for a while before opening up.

What I really wish is that, if Dr. Grey had to die, and I had to come here, I could have had powers that didn’t require a telepath to learn control from. Then I could avoid Miss Frost.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.


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July 12th, 2005:


Dear Diary,

Xavier called me into his office today after classes. At first, I figured he was going to have me finally give him my opinion on my training under Miss Frost--namely that it SUCKS--but it turned out to be something completely different. The Nosy Nancy herself was there, for starters...


I carefully stuck my head in the doorway after Xavier’s voice called me to come in. As soon as I spotted Miss Frost I had to mentally scramble to reinforce my shields, because I felt a bubble of fear rising within me. For one thing, I seem to lose my control when I’m scared, and secondly I didn’t want her to know I was scared.

“I can come back later if you’re busy now, sir,” I said, hoping beyond hope he’d let me.

“Don’t be silly, Margaret; I asked Emma to be here for our meeting. Please, have a seat.”

I edged carefully around the door and tentatively made my way in, pointedly sitting in the chair furthest from Miss Frost. Not that it would really matter if she wanted to attack me, plus she was between me and the door, but it really was the only thing I could do to make myself at least feel safer. I sat carefully in the leather-bound chair in front of Xavier’s desk, gingerly setting down my more-than-five-year-old backpack that had seen me through school since sixth grade.

“What is this about, then, if it isn’t about what we discussed last week?”

Xavier steepled his fingers in front of himself, elbows planted on the surface of his desk. His eyes seemed to be trying to burrow through my forehead, or something, and his mental fingers were undeniably making tentative pokes at my shields. I narrowed my eyes in annoyance, feeling a small surge of...something. He stopped poking.

“Margaret, I’ve called you in here today to discuss your future at this school.”

That surprised me. I blinked a few times and said, “Umm, work my buns off in class, apply to colleges, hopefully earn some scholarships and graduate?” From the look on Xavier’s face, that wasn’t what he meant.

“I mean what do you want to do with your powers.”

‘Oh!’ I thought, ‘That’s easy!’ “Well, I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. My mom wanted to go to medical school when she was younger, but she got pregnant with me and married my father, so they couldn’t afford for her to go to school full-time. A few years ago she finally managed to become a Registered Nurse, and that’s brought in a little more money for the family, but it’s still not enough because they had the triplets a few years before that, and three boys can’t exactly wear hand-me downs from one older sister. I like kids, and I’ve baby-sat for extra money lots of times, so I was thinking I could be a pediatrician, with an eye towards building my own practice and branching out into family medicine. My powers would be really useful for working with really little kids who can’t talk yet, or can’t speak clearly yet; I could find out exactly where something hurts on a kid without having to poke and test for sore spots or anything, I’d just get their parents’ permission to make a sort of surface scan of the child’s thoughts to pick up where it hurts...And why are you shaking your head like that?”

Xavier sighed and shared a commiserating look with Miss Frost. Returning his focus to her, he said, “Well, you see Margaret, nearly all of the student’s here at Xaver’s field-test their powers by working with the New Mutants team. If you excel there, you will eventually be moved up to the elite team, the X-men. It’s a very great honor; you might not be aware of this, but Jean was one of the founding members of the X-men.”

My first thought, quite frankly, was ‘Dr. Grey ran around in spandex and contributed to massive property damage? That doesn’t sound like the actions of a doctor!’ I mentally regrouped.

“Why?”

Xavier blinked, and Miss Frost raised an eyebrow. Snooty cow.

“Why what?”

“Well,” I said, hesitating at the idea of contradicting the school principal. This was hardly calling the teacher of a single class on a minor mistake, after all. At the condescending look Miss Frost sent my way, however, I firmed my resolve and refused to look back.

“Why should I want to be on any team, whatever level? What ultimate purpose would that serve?”

“Well, members of the team would show the world that mutants are capable of being useful, and are worthy of acceptance: stopping super villains from endangering civilians, saving the world, and keeping other mutants from misusing their powers or hurting humans.”

Now, that was just wrong, in my experience. I’d seen the sites to super-battles before--I’d been born and raised in New York City, after all--and had my parents pick me up in the middle of a school day to evacuate within half an hour’s notice of some big battle nearby. I remembered my father complaining about losing hours of paid work because he couldn’t get to the office for one reason or another, which resulted in the entire family having to suck it up and eat less, wear clothes for longer, break out sewing kits and rag-boxes for repairs of old, worn clothing that sometimes was just on the verge of being outgrown. My going through puberty, on top of the Dweebs’ infantile growth-spurts, had been hell on the family’s savings. Several times I’d bought clothes several sizes too big, just so I could grow into them and wear them longer, saving money while subjecting myself to social ridicule. The survival of the family as a whole was far more valuable than a bit more social acceptance.

“If you’re trying to improve human/mutant relations, then why are classes in fighting offered? Why not classes in philosophy, diplomacy, comparative religions, psychology, debate? Why doesn’t the school have a Model United Nations club? Why doesn’t the school have guidance counselors, ones with training in anger management and degrees in psychology? Furthermore, shouldn’t there be a career and college center on campus to help students find colleges, trade schools, and/or jobs? Even my old school, which was certainly no prize, had all of those things.”

Xavier opened his mouth to rebut, but I was on a roll.

“You said nearly all of the students end up on the teams. What happens to those that don’t?” He looked a touch sheepish. Ah. Defectors to some opposing side, I’ll bet. “Mm-hmm. Is there anyone who has actually graduated from this school?”

Xavier had a slight look of triumph to his eyes as he said, in a tone of voice that said ‘you’re so silly,’ “Of course people graduate from the school. Jean, Scott, and Hank McCoy, to name a few you would know, have all graduated.”

“But all of those people ended up back here,” I pointed out. “What about the other graduates? What are they doing? What are they contributing to the general work force?”

“They are teachers here, at the school. They are giving back to that which has offered them so much.”

“In other words, this is their side job, because they’re still out ‘fighting crime’? But the teaching staff can’t be each and every graduate you’ve ever had, otherwise they’d outnumber the current students! Which means that the mortality rate among graduates must be disturbingly high.”

Xavier’s face was starting to resemble a storm cloud, and Miss Frost was looking like she wanted to rip me a new one. Well, tough, I still had things to say!

“There’s also something that’s been bothering me since day one, and Dr. Grey never really answered me: how exactly is this school funded? How do you pay the teachers’ salaries? How can you afford to take on so many students for free? How much are you charging my parents? Does the school get any federal or state funding, or is this considered a private school? If so, who are you getting donations from? Where-?”

<MARGARET! THAT IS ENOUGH!!!>

I actually screamed at that, it hurt so bad. His mental shout was more than enough to shatter my shields utterly, leaving my mind open to the thoughts of the entire school. By the time I rebuilt my shields from the ground up, I was curled up in a fetal position on the floor, the shoulder straps to my back pack wrapped circulation-cuttingly tight around my fingers in a futile attempt to distract myself from the pain. My entire body was wracked with sobs. As I looked up into his still-furious face, I just knew I was in for a massive chewing out, and for no real reason other than I’d pointed out flaws in his supposedly-flawless system.

I was scared. I was indignant. I was Infuriated.

Before he could say anything, I managed to bite out, “Miss Frost has been rifling through my thoughts, and those of others, during class without permission.”

His anger did not abate.

“I will speak with Emma on that later, Margaret. As for you, if you cannot control yourself in the presence of teachers, I’m going to have to restrict you from leaving the campus for any reason other than class trips and family emergencies.”

My eyes widened, hurt, even as I struggled to my feet. “But I have church on Sundays! And choir rehearsals after evening Mass on Wednesdays and Fridays!”

“Then you will just have to learn control, now won’t you?” snarked Miss Frost from her seat in the corner. I might well have launched myself at her and used my bite-ragged fingernails to try and claw her smug face off, if things weren’t interrupted.

“CHARLES!!!”

Some old guy that I belatedly recognized as Magneto from various news reports over the years came charging into the office. I was near-giddy to note that the door almost smacked Miss Frost in the face, if she hadn’t moved her head out of the way.

Pooh.

“Erik, I’m in a meeting at the moment-”

“Damn Doom and his misbegotten tart of a wife!”

“Excuse me?”

“I had her at my mercy, Charles: someone foretold to bring about the end of the world as we know it, and she slipped my grasp! And Doom! He’s refusing to follow the rules of things! Do you know what he did? Do you?!”

“Erik, perhaps if you could wait just a moment so I-”

“He proverbially tied my hands, Charles! There were no threats, no posturing, no boasting; he just up and bought all of Genosha’s national debts and refused to let me apply for more funding if I hurt one hair on her head! I don’t know what the man’s thinking...”

“What?”

“You heard me! And then, to add insult to injury- Who are you?”

That last bit was said to me.

“Umm...Meg Kidder, newbie telepath and student?”

Magneto gave me an oddly calculating look. I’m pretty sure I didn’t like it.

Neither did Xavier, apparently. “Margaret, you can leave now; I’ll speak to you later.”

I managed to scoop my back pack up from it’s place on the ground, expertly swinging it around to my back and slipping my arms through the loops. However, on my way out I couldn’t help but send back one last zinger before bolting out and down the hall: “So, the both of you have an odd tendency to get indignant and mad when someone doesn’t follow the rules you’ve set up for yourselves; what exactly is supposed to be the difference between you again?”


...Okay, so I might very well end up regretting that last bit by my next meeting with Xavier, but I think it was worth it to see them looking confused and utterly...I don’t know what that was, but it was funny as all get-out!

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder


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Author’s Notes: Well, this was a nice, long one. What does everybody think?


Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa.


-- Rosy the Cat

3-9-06