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A Diamond in the Rough	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 3410 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
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Chapter 12: Wayward Queen Attack

Emma spent Friday evening in her room; she had Dawson, the butler, bring her dinner rather than go to the dining room. Mother, she knew, would refer to it as “sulking,” but Emma felt utterly wretched after having fingers and a metal medical device (torture implement) shoved inside her, the first time anything had been in there. To say nothing of the bloody, agonizing aftereffects of the pap smear.
Not infrequently while growing up, Emma had taken refuge in her room, particularly whenever Father had to have one of his “talks” with Christian after her brother had disappointed him in some way or another. The bright whites and soft lines of Degas’ ballerinas always soothed her nerves when Father dressed Christian down. The trophies from chess tournaments and certificates of excellence from her school always allayed fears that she might be next with proof of accomplishments earned.
Now, though, as she stared up at the ceiling while lying on her bed, she doubted. None of these will mean anything if he finds out about me, about my curse. So far, Ms. Grey and I have been discreet, but perhaps it’s best if I distance myself from her when we get back. Her stomach tightened. Just a little, she amended.

XXXXX

The next morning, Mother dragged Emma out of bed at the unconscionably early hour of eight for her weekly mani-pedi. On arrival, Emma insisted on having a manicure only. Mother shot her a disapproving look.
Before she could scold her daughter, Emma informed the manicurist that she’d get the deluxe manicure with the fashionable “accent nail,” wherein one nail, usually the ring finger, would get some additional pressed-on patter or other enhancement. Emma selected a white rhinestone applique for her accent nail.
Mother seemed mollified by Emma’s choice. She even gushed, “Emma dear, your French tips will look just splendid with that! Plus, it’ll be good practice for the day when you have a real diamond on that finger!”
Emma rolled her eyes and sat down in the manicurist’s chair.
Emma dozed in the chair while the manicurist, an older woman – Vietnamese, she recalled – did her job. Regaining consciousness, she overheard Mother yammering with her “friends” in the other chairs about some soap opera or another. It might have been Days of Our Lives, but Emma truly neither knew nor cared.
Nonetheless, Mother tried to rope her into the inane conversation: “What do you think of the handsome new actor for Todd, Emma darling? It’s strange to have the same person who played a different character come back to replace such a decorated fan favorite, don’t you think? The excuse of ‘plastic surgery’ is an interesting cover, at least.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t follow any of those shows, Mother. I have much better things to do with my time. Don’t you know they rot your brain?” she added, deliberately echoing words Mother had used about her favorite childhood cartoons.
“You might be too good for them now,” Mother shot back, “but you used to have the biggest crush on… Oh, now I’ve lost his name. He had three of them.”
Emma frowned. “Jonathan Taylor Thomas?”
“Yes! That’s the one.”
“I did not,” insisted Emma.
“Don’t be silly, dear. You told me you did.”
“I did no such thing,” Emma insisted again.
“Oh, Emma,” Mother laughed. “No need to feel embarrassed about it! We all have them at that age.”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t,” Emma reiterated, barely reining in her frustration. You’re the one who had a crush, despite him being the same age as your middle-school daughter.
Mother hummed. “You must’ve forgotten.”
Emma wanted to argue, to shout, *You’re the one misremembering, Mother. You just won’t admit it. At least, unlike Christian, I have an excellent memory, so you won’t convince me to cave in to your delusions like he did!*
Fuming, Emma didn’t reply, however, deciding this fight wasn’t worth the energy. After yesterday, I’m likely on thin ice. I can’t push Mother until she complains to Father. If Father were to summon me to his study, as he did so many times with Christian, to express his disappointment in me…
Emma shuddered at the thought.

XXXXX

Their next stop was the salon – mostly for Mother to touch up her color to hide any gray, but she’d also scheduled a trim for Emma’s hair. Once again, Mother dove down the rabbit hole of her soaps with the working women. Fortunately, besides the celebrity-gossip rags, they had copies of the Boston Globe and USA Today for Emma to lose herself in instead…
… until she read Senator Inhofe’s (R-Okla.) op-ed in Today about the “mutant threat” and how “all mutants should be identified, labeled terrorists, and sent to Guantanamo Bay.” Poll results accompanied the piece, showing that fully 75% of the respondents thought of mutants as “dangerous” or “very dangerous.” Elsewhere, the paper reported mutant registration bills under discussion in various committees in the US House of Representatives; the most likely to pass, when brought to the full House for a vote, carried the anodyne name “The PATRIOT Act.”
Mother’s voice broke through the cloud of dread that had settled over Emma’s thoughts: “Emma darling, what are you reading? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Emma set the paper aside, kicking herself for not even realizing she’d reacted so visibly. Now that it had been brought to her attention, she could feel her hands shaking. “It’s nothing, Mother,” she lied.
Mother hummed. “Your father would tell you, ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the paper.’ He’d know better than I would; I never read them.”
You sound so proud of your ignorance, Mother, thought Emma, and she desperately wanted to say it aloud.
One thing that held her back was the part of her mind that had to admit, begrudgingly, just this once, that Mother might be right.

XXXXX

After a leisurely lunch at a wine shop in downtown Dover, they window-shopped along the streets. Exclusive boutiques announced upcoming fall fashions via their posed mannequins. One little hole in the wall claimed to sell “vintage vinyls,” which Mother explained meant “records,” adding, “As if anyone still owns a record player anymore. It’s 2003, dears – get with the times!”
The comment led Emma’s thoughts to Christian, the one musician and music-lover in the family. She’d rarely seen him without his Walkman cassette player or, later, CD player. Once at a choral recital, he’d sung an aria so sublime that the thirteen-year-old Emma had found herself moved to tears. Fortunately, Father had been too focused on the performance to notice, sparing Emma any potential shame.
Christian wasn’t so lucky, Emma recalled. His tears had been visible on the stage. When they got home, Father had summoned Christian to his study for one of his… stern talkings-to. Emma, in her room, had buried her nose in one of her chess books.
A block later, they arrived at Haute, a couture women’s boutique that Emma enjoyed patronizing. Once inside, Mother bee-lined directly to the swimwear section. “I thought we should find you something for the party,” she explained as she perused some options in colors far too vibrant for Emma’s taste.
“I already told you: I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” Emma groused.
“Neither was I when I met your father,” replied Mother airily. “You never know when opportunity will come calling, so it’s good to keep an open mind.”
Emma snorted. I didn’t realize Father’s middle name was “Opportunity,” she thought. She wanted to say it, too, but she held her tongue.
“Besides,” continued Mother, “it never, ever hurts to look your best, Emma darling. Flaunt what you’ve got. Turning someone’s head can open doors, even if you don’t follow through on what your outfit might suggest.”
That brought Emma up short in the aisle. I never knew Mother was so… calculating about this. What else might she be hiding?
“Now, I’ll admit I should’ve made my peace sooner that your figure is closer to the Frost side of the family. I held stubbornly onto hope that you’d simply prove a late bloomer.” Mother glanced up from a shockingly-brief electric blue bikini. “Would you want implants?”
Emma didn’t answer, too thrown by the question. After blinking and shaking her head to shake off the shock, she finally responded with a firm “No, Mother.”
Mother shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask, dear. Thankfully, Paris’s popularity means that designers are creating looks for figures like yours.”
Great. Mother just compared me to someone best known for having been filmed in bed with a man. Emma shuddered, remembering how the news and rumors of that incident had made the rounds amongst her classmates at Snow Valley.
A noise of surprise from Mother drew Emma’s attention from her internal disgust. “I spotted this one in a catalog, and I just knew this place would have one. I think it’s simply perfect for you, Emma darling!”
She held up a white one-piece with thin diagonal gold stripes about three inches apart from each other. The “neck” line would plunge, at a guess, down to her navel; and the back seemed to match. Horizontal strings of fabric at the bustline in front and back would, theoretically, prevent accidental exposure. Rather than shoulder straps, two more strings would tie together behind the neck, halter-style. All told, the swimsuit would expose much more – an order of magnitude, at least – than Emma felt comfortable wearing, especially in front of other people, particularly powerful business contacts of Father’s whose respect she needed to begin garnering.
“Try it on, dear,” Mother urged. “I want to see you in this.”
As she tried to foist the garment onto her daughter, Emma’s eyes made contact with Mother’s, and her mind’s eye beheld a series of images:
This swimsuit in the catalog / Emma wearing this swimsuit / Boys Emma’s age strutting and jockeying for Emma’s attention and approval / Emma flirting and teasing to string them along regarding which of them might receive her favor / Her “favor,” fantasy-Emma insinuating, rich with innuendo / Emma making a selection and sneaking off to some hidden corner of the estate / The young man pulling down his shorts, and Emma dropping to her knees –
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and whipped her head to the side to terminate the images. Her stomach churned, and she wanted to retch in a most undignified fashion – not only at the images themselves, but also at how invested Mother felt about them. Mother truly only sees one way for me to be of value – that way.
“No,” she croaked.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” replied Mother, all umbrage. “I want to see how this looks on you.”
Emma shook her head. “I am not wearing that.”
Mother scowled. “Emma Grace Frost,” she bit out, deploying the full name for maximum intimidation. “I have had it up to here with your attitude!” She held her hand in a flat plane beside her temple. “I have tried to reach out, to be reasonable, only for you to act like some stuck-up ice queen who’s better than everyone. News flash, missy: You’re not.”
She pushed the swimsuit into Emma’s chest. “Stop acting like a spoiled child. You take this into the changing room and put it on.”
“No!” Emma repeated. “I. Will. Not. Wear. That. Swimsuit.” As she spoke, she stared her mother down, filled with loathing and fury. She imagined her eyes gleaming like diamonds in intense light.
On making eye contact, she pushed with her mind, much as she had with those two losers during the first week of school, hoping to force Mother to back off.
Mother reared back as if Emma had slapped her, and her eyes glazed over. “You won’t wear this swimsuit,” she intoned.
It worked!
“Forget you ever saw the disgusting thing,” she added for good measure.
Mother’s whole face collapsed into a wince of pain, and she cried out, clutching the sides of her head. Emma’s fury melted into guilt, tinged with panic that they might be making a scene that could ultimately land her in a cell in some forgotten prison, as Senator Inhofe suggested should happen to her. Emma tossed the swimsuit aside for one of the retail workers to retrieve later and stepped in close for Mother to lean on her.
One of those retail workers materialized as if from thin air. “Excuse me, ladies,” the petite blonde addressed them. “Is something wrong?”
Thinking quickly, Emma lied, “She’s having a migraine. I’ll walk her out to that bistro across the street to sit down.”
As they exited, Mother asked dazedly, “Why did we go in there again?”
“You wanted a purse, I think,” Emma lied again.
“My head is throbbing, Emma darling.” She looked up at the bistro. “A glass of wine would do wonders.”
“Of course, Mother.”
As much as Mother gets on my nerves, Emma fretted, I didn’t mean to hurt her…
Did I?

XXXXX

At the bistro, a glass of wine became a bottle. One bottle became two. Much to Emma’s alarm, Mother finished a third bottle and seemed utterly unfazed.
Unsure how to proceed, Emma nibbled at the reuben she’d ordered while Mother chattered about who was likely to attend this weekend’s party. She decided to test the waters by asking, “Why’d we come to this part of town, Mother?”
Mother’s mouth quirked sideways in thought before she gestured grandiosely at the sunny sky. “It’s a lovely day for pampering and spending time with my daughter,” she replied. “There was something I’d wanted to do specifically, but…” She shrugged. “It’s left me entirely. I’m sure it’ll come back to me eventually.”
Emma wondered about that. Did I erase her memory? Or simply block it? Permanently or temporarily?
“I do know our final stop is the Body Shop,” continued Mother. “An hour in the tanning bed, a facial, a massage, a bikini wax – the full suite of services to round out the day, so we both look our best in our swimsuits at the party.” Emma blanched a little, prompting Mother to ask, “What’s the matter, Emma dear?”
Not wanting to reopen the topic of swimsuits and risk jogging Mother’s memory, Emma donned a fake smile. “Nothing important, Mother,” she lied. “I was simply thinking about how I haven’t had as much time to maintain my tan as I’d have liked.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but you are looking a bit ashy,” Mother agreed. “Just remember to strip down completely before getting in. We don’t want unsightly tan lines, do we?” She peered over her shades across the table at her daughter. “Speaking of unsightly, will you also need a bikini wax?”
Emma’s fake smile vanished. “No, Mother, that won’t be necessary. Before you ask, I’m not discussing that in public. Or anywhere, for that matter.”
Mother frowned. “You’re no fun, and your prudish attitude will come back to bite you one day. Mark my words, Emma darling, but don’t come crying to me when it happens.”
From that point onward, Emma stopped feeling bad about the earlier incident.

XXXXX

At the Body Shop, once Mother had begun her beauty routine, Emma decided she’d had enough “fun” for one day. She slipped out to the limo and had d’Amato, the driver, take her home. Whatever the consequences, they have to be more tolerable than one more minute with Mother.
All the way home, Emma seethed. The presumption, suggesting I parade myself about, like some cheap tart! Mother even expects – no, encourages – me to debase myself for the attentions of some mediocre half-wit of a boy. Any boy, apparently, will do, as far as she’s concerned! In her perverted fantasies, she didn’t even bother to think of a specific boy, nor try to imagine one I might actually like!
With each mile, the pressure inside Emma built, the anger crystallizing into a spiky internal fury. Not that I know, or can imagine, anyone who might deserve my attention, much less… anything else. She shuddered.
Upon arrival at Frost Manor, Emma’s heels clacked on the hardwood floors, the echoes promulgating down the corridors. Faint sounds of voices speaking Spanish above her, upstairs, indicated the housekeeping staff were performing their weekly duties. Father, she knew, was out golfing with business contacts or politicians or both.
When Emma got to her room, she closed the door, buried her face into the pillow on her bed, and screamed.
She could, at least, maintain some dignity by ensuring the help didn’t hear her.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
A/N: I'm not sure what about this chapter is wildest - having to research "soap opera plotlines of 2003," or "Senators and Congressional representatives in 2003" to try to figure out which real-life politicians would be stridently anti-mutant (extra bonus: 2003 was when Mitt Romney was governor of Massachusetts), or "which areas of Massachusetts are the wealthiest" for cities and counties where the Frosts might live and frequent for shopping, or finding out that the "accent nail" that my wife has worn as long as I've known her was a fashion trend at this time.
In general, I'm treating Magneto revealing the existence of mutants to the world as Evolution's version of 9/11 (appropriately, since that was a few days ago).
Also, Mrs. Frost is just the worst, isn't she? I myself can't even decide if Emma should feel bad about mind-zapping her!
Let me know what you think with a review. :)
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A Diamond in the Rough