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A Diamond in the Rough	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 3688 -:- 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
- 15
- 16
Chapter 16: Reprise en Scène

Returning to the campus of Bernhardt on Tuesday, Emma felt a profound lightness, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Over her lunch – a Caesar salad from the on-campus sandwich shop run by two little old ladies, both alumnae who seemed to have never left – Emma watched the other students bustling about, heading to classes or back to their dorms or to meet their friends for lunch or to their cars to get off campus for a while. The whole campus felt, quite simply, alive, as if the grounds themselves could breathe and speak and sing again now that the students had returned.
They all seem so carefree, she mused.
Of course they do, retorted the harsh side of her brain. None of them have had the weekend I’ve had. None of them face the same pressure to succeed that I do. Failure is unacceptable for a Frost, remember? Especially if Adrienne is trying to present herself as a worthy inheritor of the Frost empire.
Between bites of food, she sighed. It wouldn’t even be a question if Christian hadn’t proven so disappointing to Father.
He really was too soft, her harshness agreed. Not me, though. I won’t fail the way Christian did. I won’t let Adrienne steal what’s rightfully mine.
“Mind if I join you?” a familiar voice broke into Emma’s scheming.
“By all means.” Emma gestured to the other chair at her table. “It’s good to see a friendly face.”
Jean sat down, gathering her dress under her. Emma thought the forest green with a belt of large gold rings around the waist looked rather fetching on her. “Didn’t get much of that at home, I take it?”
Emma shook her head. “Let’s just say I couldn’t wait to get back.”
“Anything you wanna talk about?”
Emma shook her head again. “How was your weekend, Jean?”
The redhead smiled at Emma’s use of her name. “Fine. Nothing to report, honestly. My parents and sisters are pretty used to short visits by now.”
“Your sisters – older or younger?”
“Both younger. Sara is a junior in high school, and Julia is just starting eighth grade.”
Emma nibbled on her lunch. Between bites, she sighed. “I’m sure you’re a model older sister.”
Jean smiled. “I’d like to think so, but good luck getting either of them to admit it.” Her smile fell a bit. “Ah… not to brag.”
Emma shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?”
Pulled up short by Jean’s persistence with that question, Emma didn’t respond right away. After another bite – and mentally chewing over what Jean was asking of her – she decided to open up a little. “No, I suppose not; but I have enough else to manage that I can’t spare the energy worrying about something I can’t control.”
Jean hummed. “That’s probably a healthy attitude to have.”
“Practical, really.” Emma looked around; the sandwich shop currently had no other patrons. Outside the window, students went about their business; none spared a glance in their direction. “Like checking in with me now, while everyone else seems otherwise occupied.”
Jean also looked out the window, a small smile curling her mouth. “I’ve gotten a lot fewer dirty looks with each passing week. This place seems much more accepting than my high school.”
“I wonder why.”
“Maybe it’s the improved maturity of the student body,” Jean answered with a shrug. “Young adults rather than teenagers.”
Emma mulled that over. The other students at Bernhardt certainly seemed less cutthroat than the girls at Snow Valley, less concerned with status and pecking order. Part of her wanted to call them “soft.”
“I don’t think it’s ‘softness,’ Emma,” Jean chided. “More that… most of them just want to meet their own goals for success. Rather than measure themselves against others, they’ve decided to measure themselves as they are today against their past selves.”
Emma shot a glare at Jean, but she remembered that her thoughts were audible to the other telepath. “I’ve always been taught that life was about competition – to achieve one’s goals required preventing others from achieving theirs.”
“What about ballet? The whole troupe collaborates to perform,” Jean replied. “I saw that through your own eyes.”
Emma laughed. “My dear Jean, don’t be naïve! Ballet is thoroughly competitive, at least for those who wish to dance prima.”
Jean turned away from the window to face Emma, who responded in kind. “Before M-Day, I was the ‘prima’ of my varsity soccer team; so I get competing for your spot. Without my teammates, though, we wouldn’t have won as much as we did.”
“It is frustrating that someone else’s poor performance or lack of skill can bring down the whole, isn’t it?” Emma replied, savoring the experience of safe eye contact. “I suppose that’s why I always preferred chess: everything that occurs on the board depends solely on me.”
Jean pursed her lips. “That wasn’t the point, Emma.”
Emma smirked and narrowed her eyes. “Wasn’t it?”
Jean’s mouth scrunched. “No,” she insisted, her tone suggesting she at least saw Emma’s point. “My point was that neither ballet nor team sports are purely competitive.”
Emma laughed, covering her mouth with her left hand just in case any of her salad greens had stuck to her teeth without her knowledge. “I suppose I can meet you halfway on that,” she replied in a playful tone.
“How magnanimous of you.” Jean’s return smile and narrowed eyes underscored her sarcasm.
With her left hand near her eye-line, Emma checked her watch. “I hate to cut this short – truly I do – but I need to finish my lunch and head to class. I’d…”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I think I would like to talk to you more about this weekend later. Somewhere private – I don’t want anyone to overhear.”
Jean blinked in surprise. “My chemistry class ends at four. Why don’t you meet me outside the science building, and from there…” She bit her lip. “My dorm room? That’s the most private place I can think of.”
“That’ll do nicely, actually.”
Jean visibly relaxed. “Alright, then. See you at four.”

XXXXX

Livingstone Science Building stood four stories tall, the worn brick of the walls attesting to its decades of service. A broad awning sheltered the paired double doors that admitted students inside and released them onto campus. A tall walnut tree stood next to the entrance, nearly as tall as the flat roof, and a few of the leaves showed the first signs of the oncoming autumnal alterations. Other, smaller walnut trees dotted the immediate vicinity, each accompanied by one or two wrought-iron benches, one of which Emma occupied while awaiting Jean.
Who designed these benches? Emma griped as she reviewed her notes from her political science class, shifting around to try, unsuccessfully, to alleviate her discomfort.
Other Bernhardt students began exiting the building in a large enough swarm that signaled the likely end of class for at least one section. Young women of all shapes and sizes dispersed onto the wider campus, chattering among themselves about various topics, too numerous for Emma to lock onto any for more than a few words. She couldn’t yet spot Jean among the throng.
One conversation did catch her ear, and not just because the voice belonged to one of her classmates from English class: “That mutant girl’s in my science class.”
“Anything weird happen yet?”
“Not really. She seems pretty nice, actually. Almost too good to be true, really. She’s tall, athletic, pretty, and smart.”
“I’ve heard she has mind powers. She probably cheats on tests by reading the professors’ minds.”
Emma bit her tongue. She knew Jean well enough now to know that her fellow telepath would never do such a thing, but she couldn’t risk speaking up for her friend, lest she herself be labeled a “mutant lover” or some such. Jean might believe the other students don’t care that much, but based on what I’ve seen and heard, that seems a little optimistic.
The crowd thinned, and Emma spotted the subject of the others’ conversation exiting the science building, the afternoon sun adding warm overtones to her dress and bronze calf boots. The yellow-orange light also tinged Jean’s red hair, rendering her mane into a fiery aura or halo. Jean flashed Emma a smile, and Emma felt a strange lightness as she stood to meet her friend.
“It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,” Emma sniffed with a playful smirk on her lips, hoping to signal her playful intent.
Jean rolled her eyes in an equally playful way. “Please accept my most humble apologies, Your Highness.” She gestured to a blocky brick building atop a nearby low ridge; a sidewalk curled along the ridgeline to connect to the rest of campus. “I’m in Singletary there. If Your Majesty would accompany her humble servant?” For added affect, she added a curtsy.
Emma lifted her chin and waved with the back of her hand. “Very well. Lead on.”
With another amused roll of her eyes, Jean did just that. Emma fell into an easy stride beside her redheaded counterpart. As they wound their way up to the dorm, neither young woman spoke, leaving Emma with her thoughts.
That little exchange just now was so silly, she chided herself. I never would have behaved like that around anyone at Snow Valley. I’m glad she rolled with the joke; otherwise, I’d feel more embarrassed than I do.
Jean led Emma into the dorm, through the ground-floor lobby and social room and up three flights of stairs and down the carpeted corridor to room 416. The wooden door, painted white, bore a small rectangular whiteboard with a marker magnetically stuck to it. Other doors bore similar boards with messages to or from the residents, messages making plans or leaving jokes or sharing well wishes.
Jean’s, however, stood blank.
Emma frowned at that, feeling a spike of sadness on her friend’s behalf.
As she slid her key into the lock, Jean glanced over her shoulder, a wan smile on her lips. “It’s better than something like, ‘Go to hell, mutant bitch!’ But thank you.”
Emma’s frown deepened. “Did that actually happen?”
“Not here,” Jean replied as she opened her door. “I got a note like that in my locker back at Bayville High, right after M-Day.” Her voice softened with intense emotional undercurrents as she spoke. “I recognized the handwriting. One of my teammates on the soccer team. Someone I considered a friend. She never spoke to me again.”
Emma fumed at that, though she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t – the rage sat, spiky and inchoate, in her chest, unable or unwilling to let itself be defined in words.
Jean smiled thinly again. “It still hurts sometimes, but I try not to dwell on it.” She gestured Emma inside. “Especially since I know my real friends would never treat me like that.”
Emma didn’t need to ask what she’d meant – she’d substituted “real” for “mutant.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a bit, I need to use the restroom. It’s at the end of the hall, in case you need it while you’re here.”
Emma shuddered – she’d always hated having to use public restrooms. “The infamous communal dorm showers. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jean shrugged. “We had them at the Institute, too, so I’m used to it.”
Emma wrinkled her nose.
“Please, make yourself at home until I get back,” the other mutant instructed her with a laugh and a gesture.
Once she’d left, Emma decided to indulge her curiosity a bit. The room itself felt tiny and cramped, even with only one set of standard furniture (bed, desk with chair, nightstand, waist-high chest of drawers); on further inspection, the nightstand was actually a second set of drawers. Next to the nightstand sat a black mini-fridge. A closed closet door stood in the wall to the left of the main door; it bore a poster of a woman playing soccer, but Emma didn’t recognize her. Shelves on the far wall held an assortment of dishes, snacks, cleaning supplies, and paper products. Sky-blue sheets adorned the bed.
On the wall above the dresser, Jean had mounted a corkboard, to which she’d pinned a number of photos. One showed the redhead in burgundy graduation regalia, standing alongside others who must be her parents and sisters, if the shapes of their faces was any indication. Another photo showed her, in the same regalia, beside a tall, slim young man, also in cap and gown, his crimson shades across his eyes, cutting a striking figure. Both were smiling broadly, and their hands clasped at the bottom edge of the photo.
This must be the ex, Emma mused. Not the Neanderthal, clearly. That jawline looks like it could cut glass, but why wouldn’t he take off the shades for a picture with his girlfriend?
Handsome as he is, she’s much too pretty for him.
A third photo showed Jean and a number of other girls at the beach together. Emma’s eyes flicked over the others briefly: a petite ponytailed brunette; a trampy-looking blonde with a tattoo or scar on her upper arm; a short, curvy dark-skinned girl (Latina of some sort?); a tomboyish Asian; and a pale brunette with white bangs and dark lipstick, clad in denim and a hoodie rather than beachwear. I wonder what her deal is.
Among the lot, though, none could hold a candle to Jean. Her fiery mane seemed to pour from the sun hat on her head in incendiary waves, the sunlight lending a tinge of orange to enhance the effect. Where the others had all worn rather revealing bikinis (besides the girl with white bangs), Jean had chosen a kelly-green one-piece that covered more.
Technically. Barely.
Emma drank in every detail. Long, athletic legs bared all the way to the hip. Cutouts in the swimsuit’s sides showing her waist. A neckline that plunged to the navel. A string across the generous bust, straining valiantly at the task of preventing any accidental exposure beyond the already-considerable cleavage on display. The long, graceful neck sloping gently into the shoulders. The smile that conveyed all of Jean’s warmth and kindness even in a photo. The green eyes that glittered with intelligence.
A confusing maelstrom of emotions buffeted Emma. She admired and envied her friend’s beauty in roughly equal measure. She felt impressed at Jean’s daring to wear something like that, along with a renewed resentment towards Mother for trying to get her to wear something like it with her own significant lack of bust. She felt warm all over, but pleasantly so. She also felt oddly hollow, as if she’d missed something important by never going on a beach trip with a group of friends (not that I had any to go with).
Beyond all those emotions, something else hovered, something Emma could neither define nor describe.
Emma turned away from the corkboard, trying to understand herself. Her eyes alighted on one more photo, this one standing in a frame on the dresser/nightstand beside the bed. The breath caught in Emma’s chest, and she would’ve sworn her heart skipped a beat.
In the photo, a beaming Jean stood resplendent in a purple satin dress, corsage on her arm, her red hair piled into a sculpted updo. Gilt, strappy heels and a slit in the dress up to mid-thigh brought a great deal of her shapely leg into full relief. The sweetheart neckline, slim straps, and gold oval pendant set with a single, oval ruby highlighted her neck, shoulders, collarbones, and decolletage. The ex with the shades stood behind her, arm around her waist, looking sharp in his own right in his tuxedo accented with purple bow-tie and cummerbund to match Jean’s dress.
The warmth Emma felt earlier intensified now, as did that undefined feeling, which she felt just on the cusp of being able to name.
Behind her, the sound of the door startled Emma, forcing a breath out of her that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She turned to see that Jean had returned, and she found her focus long enough to clamp down on her mental shields. She didn’t want Jean to pick up on whatever Emma was feeling.
Not before I can figure out what it is for myself.
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A/N: Mise-en-scene is a term for how the set of a play (or a story's setting more broadly) communicates the vibe it wants to give. I mixed it with the term "reprise" for this title's chapter, since it's about trying to capture the vibe of the setting as well as a return to that setting... among other things.
Please let me know what you think about this chapter (or even the story as a whole) in a review!
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A Diamond in the Rough