Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Kid a Kidder ❯ Chapter 7 ( Chapter 7 )

[ 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 a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the “Minion” saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms!

Chapter 7

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July 17th, 2005:

Dear Diary,

I skipped church for the first time in years, and for the first time ever for a reason other than being sick. Granted, given the fact that I was physically and mentally exhausted to the point that I slept through both my alarm clock and Sophia lobbing her pillow at my head, I had more than just cause to do so. Still, I felt rather guilty when I finally woke up and it was after noon. Kitty was an absolute godsend and brought me some food from the cafeteria, since I’d missed lunch. Sure it was just a sandwich and some grapes, but it was a heck of a lot better than what little I’d had time to eat during that whole spazzed-out world-thing.

I wonder, how is it that--according to the calendar--almost no time passed between the universe blinking out of existence and it blinking back to normal, yet I was still tired, sore and feeling generally yucky?

Anyway, after my lunch and a shower that wasn’t as long as I’d’ve liked it, I was basically herded to the infirmary to be checked over by Dr. McCoy, who recommended I eat a lot of little meals over the next few days, and drink plenty of fluids. Xavier’s still bed bound and on an I.V., so until he’s better Dr. McCoy and Miss Munroe are splitting duties as acting principals--headmaster/headmistress, whatever--and I think they’ll do a great job. Kurt’s going to be in charge in a few days, however, because they and Kitty--and I think her boyfriend, who I haven’t met--are invited to the Von Doom wedding.

I don’t know why, but I wish I was going. It’s silly of me, really, considering I don’t have anywhere near the spare money to buy an appropriate dress for something like that, short of emptying my college savings...I guess it’s just my inner little girl that still wants to be part of a fairy tale.

Anyway, Dr. McCoy said he was rather impressed with my work in Genosha to help Xavier--My guess is that Mom got all “proud mother” and started singing my praises while they were talking on the trip back to the school--and has offered to let me assist in the infirmary part-time after school and on weekends as a sort of informal internship/training to get me some experience here and now. I’ll freely admit I perked up when he said he’d give me the training to be certified for Red Cross, and that he’d discuss with Xavier if I could be paid half minimum wage, and have half minimum wage deducted from my tuition for every hour of work. That would be so freakin’ awesome!

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.

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As I put my diary away in my back pack, switching it for my copy of “Beauty” by Robin McKinley, the phone on the end table beside me rang.

Bobby called from his place in front of the TV. with Marie and Kitty playing a video game, saying, “Maggie, could you get that?”

That got him a sofa pillow chucked at the back of his head and a “Don’t call me Maggie, jerk!” for his troubles, though I did answer the phone anyway.

“Xavier’s School, Meg Kidder speaking.”

After ascertaining who it was and who they were calling for, I asked them to wait a minute. I covered the mouthpiece and said, “Kitty, there’s some Russian-sounding guy named Piotr who wants to talk to you.”

Faster than a speeding skateboard, Kitty’d hit pause on the game--to the annoyance of Bobby and the amusement of Marie--and launched herself across the room, snatching the phone receiver from my hand. I blinked a few times in surprise.

“Hi Peter!” And she was off and running. I ended up tuning her out by reading through her nearly hour-long conversation--during which Bobby roped someone else into taking Kitty’s spot in the game--only being brought back out of my “reading zone” at the click of the phone and sudden silence. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to check on my roommate/best friend, and put my book down at the look on her face.

She looked like someone had told her she had Cancer of the Puppy.

“Kitty? What is it?” I was concerned. Hardly anything, in my admittedly limited experience, got Kitty Pryde down for long, if at all. Marie had turned around too, handing off her controller and making her way over.

“Peter can’t go with me to the Von Doom wedding; he says he’s got schedule conflicts.”

Ah. Relationship problems. I didn’t know all of the ins and outs, but I knew that Kitty, Miss Munroe and Xavier--though he wasn’t going due to current health issues, and Dr. McCoy is going in his place--had all been invited to the Von Doom wedding because of something involving Doctor Doom helping Kitty when her powers went wonky for some reason. Of course she’d want to bring her boyfriend along for something like that. And if he was originally supposed to go, that meant that whoever was planning the wedding was expecting four people from the school, and showing up with one less person could be almost as disruptive to things as bringing an extra person would. Someone not showing up could also be construed as an insult, especially since the wedding was for a head of state.

Just because I hated Miss Frost didn’t mean I hated studying history, the subject she’d taught. I actually really liked history.

Marie squeezed Kitty’s hand with her gloved one. “Ah’m sorry, Kitty; Ah know you really wanted Peter to be there.”

Kitty sniffled, then froze. She slowly turned to me, a calculating look to her face. I was automatically wary.

“What?”

“Will you go with me to the wedding, Meg? I’ll be your best friend ever!”

“You’re already my best friend.”

“See! It’s perfect! You can come with me and I won’t get bored surrounded by politicians and diplomats.”

“Ah, I see; so you only want me for my ability to keep ennui at bay,” I said in a teasing tone. I became more than a tad wistful as I said, “I’ve never been to a wedding before, you know; by the time I was old enough to have gone to one, it was my youngest uncle’s wedding and Mom was cheesed off at the family in general so bad that we even boycotted Passover that year.”

“Now that’s just a crime! Come on, I’ll go get Ororo and tell Hank and we’re going shopping.”

“Shopping? Wait, what?!”

“Well, you need a new dress, duh! Ooh, and shoes! We’ll totally need to get you shoes!”

I threw a desperate look back at Marie and Bobby, who both looked like they were fighting laughter.

“Save me from this mad, mad woman!”

At that they stopped holding back and burst out into giggles and such. Traitors!

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July 18th, 2005:

Dear Diary,

Thank God for small favors because by the time Kitty tracked down Miss Munroe and Dr. McCoy after dragging me hither and yon through the school, it was far too late in the day to implement the esteemed Miss Pryde’s plan to drive me batty and/or kill me due to excessive shopping. Unfortunately it’s only a small reprieve, as Miss Munroe is taking us both into NYC for shopping after her classes--and on the school’s credit card, no less, though that’s largely because we’re going as representatives of the school and have to look dignified or something--and considering how close she and Kitty are, it’ll probably be like being dragged by Kitty Squared.

I swear Mom let off some evil cackles or something when she found out I’m going. She may or may not have also mentioned tormenting Omi with this, so I wish her joy of it; she gets so few chances to stick it to her mother as it is, and thus needs all the fun she can get. This might even be heart palpitation-worthy!

I had to take some extensive quizzes to see if I was far along enough in my classes to miss a few days for traveling and the wedding itself last night before bed, but I obviously did very well since I am going. We’re leaving a day and a half before the wedding, but we still won’t get there until late at night, giving us just enough time to crash into a longish nap to go with any sleep we get on the plane over. Also, I don’t know how, but SOMEHOW requests for a rushed job on a shiny-new passport for me were sent in, and I’ll be able to legally leave the country this time. Yippee!

Well, I’ve got to go: homework to collect and then shopping. Fun.

Leaving for the wedding--which is on the 21st--tomorrow morning. Ack!

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.

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I spent most of my morning running from class to class, picking up my homework for the days I’ll be out of the country--basically all my homework for the entire week. At least I’ll have the weekend to recover.

After third period--Miss Munroe apparently had everybody in her classes take an appropriate chapter test that another teacher could supervise--we wedding-goin’-girls piled into a school car and went shopping. Now, considering I rarely ever get to go shopping--and then I’m limited on how many things I can get and how much I can spend--I suppose most people would assume I’d find some heretofore unknown passion for fashion--that rhyming was unintentional--and tear apart every store we went to in my resulting glee. I didn’t. I undeniably have inherited my mother’s inability to enjoy shopping for anything other than books and movies, which she in turn must have inherited from Opa, because Omi’s always been a shopaholic.

I was dragged from designer boutique to designer boutique, because apparently you can’t show up for a State event wearing anything that doesn’t have some snooty person who surrounds themselves with anorexic models’ seal of approval on it, much less something with a non-exorbitant price. After the third store I had to apologize to Kitty, because I was just plain uncomfortable with the very idea of my spending so much money on a dress that I’d wear once--maybe twice if we went to Passover with the Goldberg side next year and I didn’t grow too much--and never wear again. Something nice enough for a Royal Wedding, after all, is far too nice to wear to church every Sunday.

I was waiting outside a shoe store for Kitty and Miss Munroe to finish up--I’d finally made my first purchase of the day and gotten some sensible yet pretty plain white sandal pumps with a low-ish heel--when one clothing store in particular caught my eye from across the street. The sign proclaimed it to be a vintage store with low prices, and there was a rather pretty--but plain--sleeveless dress of iridescent sky blue in the window.

I turned back toward the shoe store, sticking my head into the doorway and called out to the others, who were browsing and trying things on, “I’m gonna go look in that vintage store over there; is that okay?”

I got some noncommittal murmurs and grunts, and took that as an okay. Scurrying to the nearest crosswalk, I was practically bouncing in place while I waited for the lights to change, then almost bolted across, slowing marginally in deference to pedestrian traffic once I was back on sidewalk.

The first thing I noticed upon entering the shop was the smell. It was fragrant and woody, in a subtle sort of way, that reminded me of the inside of Omi’s omoir whenever I was sent to get out the tablecloth or candlesticks or whatever when helping to set the dinner table. It was a smell of age and elegance. I immediately decided that, even if I didn’t buy anything here today, this store was my new favorite place.

The second thing I noticed was that there were a lot of different things, but few things seemed to be multiple versions of the same item. I approached the blue dress that had caught my eye with a fair amount of trepidation: if it was too small for me, I was sunk, and if it was too big, I wouldn’t have time to alter it to fit. I asked the sales clerk on duty if I could try the dress on, and she took it off the mannequin and directed me to a changing room.

Even as I removed my jeans and t-shirt while kicking off my shoes I was praying quietly under my breath: “Please, God, let it fit; let this be my last stop; let this be the right dress...”

I was startled by the smooth coolness of the dress as I dropped it over my head, belatedly realizing that it was, in fact, silk. I twisted it around so I could read the tags and nearly collapsed with relief: there were directions for machine washing on the back of the main tag, though I got nervous again when the sizing looked like an unfamiliar system. Twirling the dress back around, I slipped my arms into the appropriate holes, tossed my ponytails forward over my shoulders, and slowly slid the zipper back up, tensing in anticipation of possibly needing to suck in my tummy. I didn’t need to, it seemed, as the zipper stopped at the neckline. One last deep breath, two tugs to hair bands to free my mane, and I stepped out of the dressing room and in front of a three-way mirror.

And stared. The dress fit me perfectly, as if tailored to my shape--not too tight, not too loose--and...it was beautiful. *I* was beautiful. I twisted and turned, trying to find anything wrong with the narrow-skirted, slit-to-the-knee dress, and found nothing. What were the odds?

“Oh, Meg, that’s gorgeous!” cried Kitty over the tinkling of the door bells even as she and Miss Munroe entered the shop. I nodded dumbly.

Miss Munroe looked at it with a critical eye, then said, “It is quite lovely on you, but it’s also rather plain, particularly for where we will be going. Perhaps a shawl, or light jacket?”

The others descended on the rest of the shop like a two-person swarm of locusts, thrusting various spangly and sparkly bits, bobs and doodads at me, but what I eventually chose I picked for myself. There was a lovely short-sleeved bolero jacket of white lace that had been touched here and there by gold in some sort of pattern. Kitty objected that it was also too plain, but I already had ideas swarming through my head. I had some silk ribbons hoarded up with my sewing kit back at the school--former decorations of birthday and Hanukah presents from Omi and my aunts and uncles--that would make lovely accents to the bolero. I cheerfully removed both jacket and dress in the changing room, threw my regular clothes back on, and walked my choices to the counter, where Miss Munroe pulled out the school’s credit card one last time to pay for it. One quick stop at a sidewalk cafe for a late lunch, and we headed back to the school triumphant.

I spent the rest of the day seated on my bed adding a dark blue ribbon to the edges of the jacket, and a leftover snippet of lace ribbon threaded with an emerald green silk was cut in half and sewn on, with snaps in the center, to be a closure for the bolero. I kept looking up at the dress, smiling, though I had to chase Carnation away from both it and the bolero a few times when he got a bit too interested in sniffing them. I gave him a bit of ribbon that had partially unraveled sometime over the years while I wasn’t looking as a toy, and he went bonkers with that until I was done, finishing just in time for dinner. I was rather proud of my alteration work, and my sewing’s been excellent for years due to the necessity of having to do one’s own repair work like Mom and I do.

Slipping the dress and jacket into the garment bag Miss Munroe’d given me earlier and hanging it up in my closet, I finished my last bits of packing into my only suitcase and settled in to read more of “Beauty.” I fell asleep before I could finish the chapter, cat curled up next to me on my pillow. It had been a good day, shopping frustration aside.

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Author’s notes: Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa, who’s been the bestest ever with back-and-forth brainstorming.

-- Rosy the Cat

4/10/06