Emma Frost and the X-Men

1) Trapped on Planet Earth

First jobs equal worst jobs. Not always, of course, and not for everyone, but years later, when Jess Wyman compared notes with her friends, they had all toiled through mindless, odious tasks, adhered to inane procedures, and answered to bipolar and/or sadistic bosses. Within that range, Jess’s first job probably ranked somewhere in the middle.

With her freshly minted, Liberal Arts college degree, magna cum laude no less, Jess had searched for that elusive first step toward a real if not yet personally chosen career. But when nothing remotely resembling a “first step” materialized, she took a daytime bartending job at a mutating “lounge,” which she soon decided must have diverged so far off its orbit that it had landed here, on Earth, unforewarned. The strange, shiftless Lounge, reminiscent of no decade, national design or ersatz glamour, had been plunked down upon an inhospitable and dying planet—what other explanation was there?

The lounge, a squat triangle-shaped building, served desperate alcoholics during the day, which was Jess’s shift. But for Thursday through Saturday nights, a sharp-elbowed entertainment promoter, who was also the boss’s girlfriend, hired comic book Superhero rock bands, clad in Super-Lycra costumes, for live shows.

“The Green Lantern, Aquaman, Iron Man—second-rate Superheroes soon to be followed by third-rate comic book heroes I’ve never even heard of.” Larry the manager pushed the hair out of brash, horsy Susan’s eyes. “Wolverine, Spawn? And how on earth are we supposed to present this Punisher character?”

“Just wait. These costume bands are surfacing big.”

“What’s wrong with Superman? One dies, another dies, they hire a new guy.”

“Superman’s band will play the Lounge soon enough. The famous ones are too famous for us. But we’re setting the precedent. Before long, Superman will be begging to play here.”

Jess handed Susan a two-toned drink in a martini glass. Never polite or in any way nice, Susan sprayed a full swallow, full force at Jess’s chest.

“You make the worst daiquiris on earth.”

“It’s a Social Mojito.” Jess pressed a towel against her shirt. “No one drinks daiquiris anymore.”

“Girls, girls,” Larry said. “It’s rum, fruit, and sugar. What’s the difference?”

Since Jess didn’t earn enough during her day shift to cover her share of a moldy semi-furnished studio shared with two roommates, she sometimes worked late nights, after a four hour break. The rationale for taking the job was to give her boyfriend time to realize he could not possibly live without her. But that marginal phase was over. Her boyfriend stopped by the lounge, taking time out from studying for the LSATs, with his arm wrapped around a shy, giggly young woman, who by Jess’s lights, was pretty if dull.

Standard operating procedure for Jess’s boyfriend, for whom she still harbored a terrible weakness. But dealing with hapless daybreak drinkers, who often suffered from the D.T.s, and astounded by the bands setting up so seriously on the spongy stage, then the Superhero hitting on her after a set—with all that going on she began to develop a hard if painful callous for her bad college boyfriend. “No,” said out loud might be enough to keep her from backsliding. So outside the Lounge, she told him, “Sayonara.” He caught her fingers as she turned to leave, wondering if she preferred freaks of radioactive experiments gone terribly wrong.

“No one cares what I prefer. Susan’s the one who’s hot for Superheroes.”

“If you change your mind, Jess darling, I’ll be waiting.”

“No, you won’t.” She whispered this; no reason to belabor the obvious.

For weeks afterward, she wept into her pillow. She cried and cried until, alleluia, she cried no more. It still hurt, thinking of him, but the worst was over.

The worst at the lounge, though, was approaching its peak. Jess opened the place at dawn and Larry did not quarrel with her giving the hapless drunks, vets or not, several bar-brand shots to get them started.

As much as Jess disliked Susan, she liked Larry with his argyle sweaters and saddle shoes. Despite his not-so-secret drug habit, Larry treated everyone as generously as was sensible and sometimes more so.

Toward the end, the Lounge kept running out of beer. One afternoon two men wrapped in raincoats even though it was summer demanded to see Larry. Jess hadn’t seen him and one of the men reached past the bar, past the rinse sink to grab the soda nozzle. He sprayed Jess in the eyes and said she should tell Larry his backers were looking for him.

A week later, the same men, at least they looked the same, tromped through the back door, into the off-limits area. Jess started to speak, but one of them strong-armed her flat against a wall, while the other dumped two steaming, foul-smelling buckets into the ice machine. Larry arrived an hour later. “Rotten fish,” he said. “Worse than human shit, worse than anything. Three days to drain and scrub the machine. Slush soapy water through it, then a double rinse of clean water, then gallons of lemon juice. And still the stink will not die.”

2) Blonde on Blonde

Larry left a message on Jess’s cell phone. “Remember that anvil Wylie Coyote used to drop on the Road Runner? It’s hurtling toward the Lounge as I speak. Ice machine, power lines cut, no beer, for crying out loud. You must’ve seen this coming. How obvious a fuck-up can one guy be? Gotta pull a fast fade inmediamente or die now, babe.”

She heard the message while holding a mirror, her expression shifting between horror and dismay. The next day her parents had sent her money for a plane ticket home. When her father had transferred the funds, he gave her double what she’d asked for. On the phone, he said that with the extra, she should buy something nice, new shoes, a dress, whatever she needed for Chicago job interviews. He was talking to people about her and thought she might do well in PR.

Jess’s idea of something nice was a few highlights to brighten her long mousey hair. That’s what she had told the colorist sporting a metallic, red hair-cut that fell along half her face. Jess couldn’t say whether the hair stylist, whose name was Katrina, squinted because of a facial tic or not. But the extreme squinting was not disguised by all the mascara Katrina layered on, making her small eyes look glued shut, almost.

Jess had never highlighted her hair before, but from watching her mother getting the procedure, decided to ask Katrina why she wasn’t using little squares of tin foil. Why, instead, was she covering Jess’s hair with thick blue paste that smelled like extra-strength Clorox?

“Honey, where have you been? Tin foil’s outmoded; no one’s done it for years.”

Jess, hair smothered in blue paste, settled, at Katrina’s direction, beneath a giant rotating halo-shaped heater. After an hour, maybe more, she thought the smell of heated bleach was going to make her vomit. Katrina was nowhere in sight, so Jess, traipsing through the huge, gleaming, new salon looked for her and even called her name. A skinny man steered her to a green velvet curtain. Behind it, Katrina was sipping Starbucks vente and gossiping with a girl whose pierced lower lip wore so many tiny rings no visible space showed between them. Katrina looked shocked and guilty seeing Jess standing there in a plastic tent, her head smothered in blue. Her squinty eyes suddenly opened and her eyebrows shot up. She turned to the girl with the lip rings. “Madison, give her our deepest conditioning treatment. Twice. Hell, give her every conditioning treatment we’ve got.” 

Soaking wet, Jess’s hair was an extreme platinum color. Katrina suggested they forgo dry-blowing it. In fact, until it grew out, Jess shouldn’t even brush it, or it might snap off at the roots. “Just comb it out with your fingers.”

“This isn’t what I asked for.”

“True,” Katrina said. “But what you asked for is total old-lady. This is the big new thing.” Jess must have looked skeptical. Katrina scooped up a few magazines. “See?” She leafed through the current fashion tomes, flipping the glossy pages fast enough to animate the white-haired, chalky-faced twelve-year-olds posturing in layers of gauzy gowns, draped with multiple aprons, lace shawls, bows, collars, pockets and pleats, all white on white. One black girl wore a white taffeta robe, looking like an elegant sacerdote, with a big white stylized, sliver-flecked miter.

When Jess’s mother met her at the airport, at least she recognized her. True, Jess was wearing a head scarf, but it didn’t hide her white bangs or the fried-white strands hanging half-way down her back. Her mom waving from the opposite end of the baggage area was a good sign. Up close, though, Jess’s mother bit her lip, saying, “Good Lord, Jess. Please, tell me it’s a wig.”

“Wish it were, Mom. Supposedly it’s the hot new thing.”

Her mother drove her oldest child straight to her own salon, no stopping home to drop off luggage or wash up.

“Can you dye it back?” Mrs. Wyman asked Madeleine, who had colored and cut her mother’s hair for as long as Jess could remember.

Madeleine was lifting one strand after another and shaking her head. “One more process, even the gentlest one, and her hair will completely fall out.”

“It will grow back. Even the world’s worst dye-job doesn’t last forever.”

“Of course not,” Madeleine said. And to Mrs. Wyman, “It’s certainly outré, but in truth, not unfashionable. What if I cut off several inches, and in four months, we’ll reconsider?”

“What about cutting it short right now?” Jess asked.

“Best way to go, as long as you don’t mind,” Madeleine said. “Then I can do something about the color a lot sooner, and it won’t split and break at different lengths.”

“God, Jess. Home half an hour and I’m ready to start smoking again.”

“No, no,” Madeleine said to Mrs. Wyman. “It’s going to be fine.” She cut Jess’s hair so it stopped at the tips of her ear lobes. At this length, though, the damaged hair shafts curled and puffed, so they looked like cotton candy.

3) Mutations

Mrs. Wyman dropped hands, forcing them away from her face. She refused to cry. If the platinum ruffles protruding from her daughter’s ears and forehead didn’t upset Jess, Mrs. Wyman could not reveal a moment’s unhappiness. It wasn’t as if her beautiful child had mutated into someone else. Outré but fashionable,” Madeline had said. Still--forget the cigarette, by now Mrs. Wyman needed a few shots of vodka.

Angling to ask Madeleine if some nearby bistro might sell her a little liquid courage, so that she might pop off for a barely noticeable ten minutes, Mrs. Wyman opened her eyes—too late. Madeleine was too busy adding glosses and gels to Jess’s hair, her deft fingers pushing the top ruffles first one direction then the other.

Against her will, however, silence eluded her. “What if you cut it even shorter, closer to Jess’s head, which is so perfectly shaped…”

Madeleine glanced at one of her favorite clients. “Don’t worry. We’ve got something very cool, very suitable happening. I promise you’ll both be thrilled.”

Jess already was. She liked her glossy, silvery, side-parted hair. Madeleine had dispensed with the bangs her mother loved so much, by plastering them to the side. Against Jess’s milky skin, her bleached, fluffed up hair seemed daring, and slightly glamorous. Her mother’s not entirely disguised discomfort only added to its allure. Turning her face right then left, Jess found a hint of otherworldliness she would never have hit upon except by accident.

Madeleine was telling her mother, “The look requires a little make-up, that’s all. Let me ask Alicia to dab on a bit, just to show you, on the house, Mrs. Wyman.”

“Jess, make-up?” her mother asked. “It’s your call, honey.”

“Make-up’s good.” Jess was up for something extreme

Alicia whispered that Jess could intensify everything at home. “Right now the mission is—pleasing everyone.” After darkening Jess’s eyebrows, she dabbed silver streaks directly under the brow-lines; shimmery gray shadow on Jess’s eyelids and a careful, drawn, dramatic swoop of black eyeliner, followed by heavy duty mascara.

Mrs. Wyman’s initial panic felt long gone already. God knows what was wrong with her a few minutes ago? Genuinely relieved, she hugged Madeleine. “Fabulous save,” and she discreetly tipped her more than usual. Jess was dazzling, if a little far out for the suburbs and job interviews. “Alicia, next time I come in for highlights, I’ll see if you’re free,” she said, slipping her a generous tip, too. “Just promise, you’ll make it subtle.”

“Extra subtle. Your friends might wonder at how young you look. Or they might not. The effect is pretty much subliminal.”

In the car, Jess threw her arms around her mother and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

Mrs. Wyman smiled. Why shouldn’t Jess look glamorously wild? You get one brief shot at being young, and no more. “On you, Jess, it’s great. On you, it’s big fun.”

“You mean that, Mom? Big fun? Because if you do, I’m holding you to it.”

“Go ahead, honey. Quote me.”

Quote me: Mrs. Wyman shivered behind the steering wheel. Jess wouldn’t need to say a word when it came down to it. Mrs. Wyman knew how soon she would regret her small indulgence. What a risk, even remembering life before she had tried on a role for size, only to find she could not strip it off, not entirely. She remembering being so frightened as a young woman. Her own opportunities had overwhelmed her, only to haunt her later.

One ordinary morning, she had looked in the mirror and seen how thoroughly she had gotten locked inside time. She loved her life—she wouldn’t trade it for anything. Still, the inevitability of it had shocked her. She had woken up to find the mirage of boundless potential turned to sand. Ahead lay early middle age leading to old age, if she were lucky, and then, death.  So, by all means, Jess, grab what fun you can, while you can.

When they arrived home, Jess wasted no time finding a white muslin shift, which she cut with pinking shears, scooping the neck low and setting the hemline so it draped along her upper thighs. When she reached for her ringing cell phone, Mrs. Wyman retreated to the kitchen and closed the swinging door.

“Larry, what happened?” On the stairs, Jess jumped up, so excited she lodged the door open. “No kidding? So from now on, you’re Professor Xavier. What about Susan?” Jess stood up to check her reflection in the hallway mirror. “Good. I never liked her.”

She chatted some more, then shrieked. “You mean you’re here? You bet. Can’t wait to see you in tact. Let me just check.”

So, Jess’s friend from Albuquerque, Professor Xavier, was driving cross-country, before starting a new career in Boston.

“Can he stay with us a few days? He’s a great guy, Mom. Whenever I was scared or broke, he always helped me out. And, just so you won’t be wondering, he’s not a boyfriend.”

Minutes later, Professor Xavier and Jess’s seventeen-year-old brother arrived in the driveway simultaneously. Jess dashed out, twirling around in her get-up. Slamming his Honda door too hard, Nick said, “Cool,” both to Jess’s unprecedented disguise and again to the Professor, who stepped out of a white van wearing an expensive morning coat over jeans and a t-shirt. Mrs. Wyman, watching from the doorway, guessed he was between thirty and thirty-five. What she couldn’t guess, however, was that until last week he had dressed like the country club golf pro.

Still in the driveway, the Professor slapped his knee, his voice loud with enthusiasm. “Emma Frost! You really are telepathic. This great concept for a costume band developed as I drove through Kansas. And then, shit! I get here and it’s Emma Grace Frost incarnate.”

4) Going on Tour

While Mrs. Wyman and Jess made up the downstairs guest room, the Professor plugged in his laptop and got to work at the kitchen table. After clicking for half an hour, he phoned a few people. His voice really carried, which Mrs. Wyman counted as an asset since he was a teacher. “Jess,” he had said, “was a top-notch student. In one short semester, she taught me as much as I taught her.” He rotated a pinkie finger and winked, signals that meant nothing to Jess’s mother.

Pulling out fresh sheets for the bed and clean towels for the bath, Mrs. Wyman grabbed her daughter’s hand and arched an eyebrow. Jess shook her head and even recoiled a little. Their weekend guest was not her boyfriend. His voice on the phone ricocheted at the corners, as if he were striving to broadcast his conversations. Arms folded, mother and daughter stared out the window, taking in the summer lawn and dappled hedge.

“Derrick. Wait up. Case of mistaken identity; that’s another guy, not me. This is Professor Charles Xavier. Like in the comics? No shit. I’ve got a driver’s license to prove it, a big white van, and four bookings in Boston. Thing is, this incredible spectacle has appeared on the scene. Are you open to adding Emma Frost to the show? Well, get up for it. One look at her and you’ll split wide open. She might even sing for all I know. Thought balloon. Do you have rehearsal space? We’re safe there? Text me the address so I’ll have it. Midnight’s fine. See you then.”

Jess was hopping up and down, as softly as a bird. “Can you believe it, Mom?” she whispered. “They want me as Emma Frost in a costume band.”

“Is that what he was saying? It sounded like code to me. Oh, look at how late it is. I didn’t have any real estate work so I better make dinner.” Her mother opened the refrigerator and was pulling out meat and vegetables. Jess waited until she stood up and touched her shoulder.

“Mom, this whole hair-bleaching accident, the timing, and the way your salon fixed me up feels cosmic. Not in any weird sense, but you know. Taking the stage as Emma Frost? That’s the ultimate, fuck-all adventure.”

“You don’t know that yet.” If Jess was off the mark, her bright, confident, young daughter would crumple inside. The downside of being young—you hoped for so much so fervently. You died every day. But now, she was already gone.

Standing in the driveway with the Professor, Jess and Nick stuck their heads inside the van. Peeking through the window, catching a glimpse of her mother’s head, Jess told Professor X, to concentrate on her father. Her mother got too wrought up; she’s bombarded with risks; in her mind, they never let up. But she’d never interfere, either. Dad’s the one who’ll want answers.”

As Professor X showed off his equipment, five boxes of synthesizers and amplifiers, a tower of looped cables, six sleeping bags and three tents, Nick said, “Our dad’s tough. He’s a tyrannical perfectionist in his real estate business. And to relax, like for fun? He intimidates whoever’s around. Unless you’re one of his personal, big-money clients.”

“An alpha dog then.”

“Except—Jess, bet you didn’t know this,” Nick said. “He’s got a collection of X-Men comic books from 1975 to 1980.”

“The Wolverine was the popular mutant, Nick. Sure his collection isn’t the Wolverine?”

“He has the X-Men’s 100th issue. But I’ve never heard him mention Emma Frost.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Professor said. “If he collected the X-Men comics, that’s an advantage.”

Then the kind-hearted, happy-go-lucky, screw-up bar owner, Jess’s sweet, incompetent former boss, took her aside. Did she really want to do this? He didn’t want to talk her father into it if certain qualms were already getting to her.

“Touring involves some seedy stuff, some hand-to-mouth. And the d.js. drink, do drugs, and play women like a contact sport. They’ll bitch about you, compete for you, love you, hate you, and take bets on which one drives you nuts the most.”

“Isn’t that part of the fun?”

“Well, yeah, it can be. It can be. Especially if you’re Emma Frost.”

5) Fun or Games

Mr. Wyman knew all about the costume band, Emma Frost, and Professor Xavier before arriving home. His wife had telephoned him and he paid close attention to her inflection. He had first fallen in love with her because of her remarkable sensitivity. She absorbed so much energy from her surroundings that it radiated from her skin. It flashed in her eyes and cast a shifting veil over her body.

So he refrained from following his wife’s speed-of-light assessments too closely. From the tone of her voice he knew Professor Xavier was a fraud, and certainly never Jess’s teacher. He cleared his throat on the phone and his wife answered that he was no doubt right. She could see that now.

The white van in the driveway only convinced him more. It didn’t look legal; the mismatched side windows and drooping rear bumper tagged it as a chop-shop vehicle. Draping his suit jacket over his shoulder, he could only marvel (accidental pun) as he prepared to meet their guest.  Let’s be honest was all he could think. A costume band? His Jess as Emma Frost? The Professor, Wyman’s unexpected houseguest, was a liar and possibly crazy, although his wife had assured him, her voice turning certain—a cadence he trusted—the man was in no way dangerous.

Before shaking hands, Professor Xavier bowed roguishly, grinning as he held his hands cupped between them, a self-mocking supplicant. And with a sly wink, the Professor stood at attention, tapping his heels together, either a quasi-military response or preparation for a dance. The deferential but not serious display amused and even pleased Mr. Wyman. The people he knew related through stock roles, which were ridiculous but helpful. That ‘Be Yourself,” adage was preposterous, unless ‘yourself’ was a simpleton.

“Nick said you collect Marvel Comics’ X-Men series. Should I gather then, Mr. Wyman, that you’re on to me? Why am I proposing to go on tour with a juvenile and silly game?”

They were sitting in what his wife called “the Sun Room,” an open, casual space, offering a few bright, cozy seats, a high ceiling, and Sun God rug.

“Call me Doug.”

“Absolutely. But you’ve still got to call me Professor X. My various careers, basically legit but so far, short-lived, due to shoot-the-moon odds, put me in awkward need of my alias.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve made the mistake of thinking I’m a match for slick businessmen. But I’m not stupid, just optimistic and impractical.”

“Unlike this latest venture, involving my daughter as a comic book Superhero.”

He laughed, nodding touché. “No contest. Except I’m not winging it anymore. I’m a good dance DJ, for techno and fusion hip-hop. No genius, but competent enough to get a band touring for a while.”

Jess tiptoed down the hall, hearing them laugh, get serious, laugh, get serious. Only after she stuck her head inside did she discover they were enjoying each other. For her father, this was rare. He worked hard to make people feel special and rich—and how extraordinarily lucky were they to have discovered this hot property.

“So Professor, are we rehearsing tonight? You said me and you were meeting up with your friends.”

“Yes, of course.” Then he invited her father to join them! Jess slapped her hands over her face.

“Thanks, Professor, but Emma finds the suggestion embarrassing. Perhaps another time.”

In the van, Jess wondered how the Professor had come up with the money to buy the van, drive here from New Mexico, and get stuff up and running.

“Given my track record, I make it a rule to set aside emergency bank accounts out-of-state, so that if necessary, I can yet again start anew.”

“What am I supposed to do? Dance, sing, battle other mutants—what?”

“Can you sing? Or rap-sing?”

“I was All-State first alto in high school. And you’ve seen me dance at the Lounge. That’s what first stoked Susan’s resentment.”

Their white van arrived next to a gray van outside the defunct Club 420. Derrick, who played keyboards hooked up to a computer, stepped out of the gray van. “Totally Emma Frost, Larry. No lie.”

“Professor X.”

“Fine. But can I be Cyclops, Emma’s boyfriend?”

Unaware she was hugging herself, Jess floated slowly into his eyes’ dark pools. His sleek, long-limbed body and lopsided grin produced a slight oscillation inside her.

“Oh boy. This fast,” the Professor said. “Sure, Derrick, you’re Cyclops.”

6) Mutant Rehearsal

Climbing out of the gray van after Derrick, Henry Tang hauled a bass drum and cymbals, the first haul of his full drum set. A small, dark man dressed in standard Goth style trailed out next, nodding shyly. Introducing him, Professor X said, “Billy is our master mixer and spinner.”

Derrick, who invited everyone to call him Scott, which was the Cyclops’ non-mutant name, asked who was responsible for special effects. The Professor responded: “You guys may not recall, but I am the leader for a reason. I play keyboards and guitar, and my light shows are famous throughout the Southwest.”

Jess backed him up. At the Lounge, he had set up all the Superhero bands with spotlights that ebbed and faded from one performer to the next. He had worked an ancient fog machine, whether the band wanted it or not, and controlled volume and ’verb without a screech.

The X-Men had played together since high school, which Jess guessed equaled close to fifteen years, if they had started when they were fifteen. Derrick composed electronic songs, allowing enough space for long, freestyle jams, in which the other performers could splice in samples, loops, or in Henry’s case, “really play drums.”

Derrick pulled out a pair of narrow, wrap-around sunglasses with a single horizontal red metallic lens. So apparently he had chosen to play the Cyclops from the Professor’s initial phone call.  Billy and Henry both wanted to play Nighthawk, aka Kurt Wagner, with his indigo hair and yellow eyes. Billy claimed he could do splits in the air and execute serial head spins. 

But since they needed a Banshee whose supersonic scream deafened his foes, stunned them and  plunged them into hypnotic states, the Professor selected Henry Tang, the incredibly loud drummer who would drive an entire set, for the role of the Irish mutant. The red-headed Banshee wore Spandex to help him fly or at least hover in the air, using vestigial wings.

“Just how far are we going with this costume shit?” Henry demanded. “Like, Professor X, are you going to plunk down in a wheelchair? Or is your wedding coat, from a marriage that didn’t last one year, going to pass as your sum homage to the venerable Professor Xavier?”

“Let’s set up inside first. We can quibble about hair and eye color, Spandex or black leather, later. Overall, I’d vote for a token effect only, with the option for anyone to go all-out if they prefer. Don’t forget, though, we’re not acting out the insanely convoluted plots here. We’re a dance band with a back-story, which some people may recognize and some may not. The thing is to put out hot, fresh sounds. Keep them dancing all night.” 

The defunct bar was dark, dank, and enormous. The Professor propped open the back door with a loose cinder block and hoisted a mound of electric cables inside.

“Hey Derrick? You were aware electricity was necessary, right?”

Huddled on a forgotten, three-legged couch with Jess, a long arm thrown across her shoulders, Derrick was saying to her, “You’re shitting me. He honestly had no idea you had mutated into Emma Frost? The Prof just called, hoping to spend a few nights with your family? No hint that your hair was bleached to death?”

“Isn’t that so telepathic? Even my parents are like, what’s to say? ‘It was meant to be.’”

From the Professor’s cables, coiled fluorescent utility lights burst into harsh, flat brightness. And the group set up quickly while Jess stood center stage, holding a cordless mic, which the Professor took away once his stage lights were mounted in place and he could turn off the utility units. Derrick handed the other guys a play list based on their past repertoire, with a few new mixes fitted with lyrics typed out in case the Professor’s newfound Emma could sing at all. “Really, half singing, half rapping, and the computers can adjust your voice as needed.”

Dipping her chin, she said, “I can sing well enough. Don’t worry.”

Hand on her bare white nape of neck, Derrick said, “At first I wanted to use Emma’s actual thought balloons or snip out of context bits of her dialogue. But it’s copyrighted. Don’t want to rip off the writer—we’re all losing control of our creative work—so I imitated Emma’s speech. Her story’s so full of intrigue, betrayal, super-girl battles, mutant deaths; and resurrections, followed by more apocalyptic mutations, her actual words sound like non sequitors anyway you slice it.”

Jess was a sinuous, dreamy, if unschooled, dancer and inside the Professor’s milky white spotlights she glided along, chasing echoes, until the beat sped up and her body waved and rippled with the beat. She twirled and her shift floated away from her pale legs. Singing nonsense sounds, she flitted across the stage, absorbing the music so it moved through her. Recognizing a coda, she stopped on cue, and assumed an X-shaped stance.

The Professor and Derrick clapped for her. One more like that and she should try out the lyrics. Even if she could not possibly anticipate the fluctuating time signatures, the alternating loops, and the stretched out phrases. But the band had already accepted her as an uncanny telepath. 

7) All Night Long

They broke for twenty minutes. The Professor poured out five shots of Johnny Walker.  “Oh, Emma, I forgot, you don’t drink.”

Derrick suggested again that the intact band stick to the comic book names, especially if Larry was Professor X, legally. Call Derrick Scott or the Cyclops.  He slipped in close to Jess, and spoke to her in a voice as intimate as if he was proclaiming his eternal love for her. No one should hear. But they did hear, because his proprietary manner piqued a slight resentment. (Wasn’t that just like him? Nighthawk, the spinner and mixer, conveyed to Banshee, rolling his eyes and tossing his head: Cyclops, his metallic red wraparounds mounted on top of his wavy dark hair, wasted no time claiming the girl, whatever girl, every time.)

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Emma?’” She shook her head: The name Emma Frost suggested wonder and beauty to her, and she had never felt a bit like anyone named Jess Wyman. Sean the Irish Banshee (actually Henry Tang and proud of his Chinese heritage) still fumed at his designation, and Kurt, aka Nighthawk, proposed they drag out their mutant names only when dressed in full regalia.

“Another subject for discussion,” Sean said, pouring himself a third shot and lighting a joint, which he offered to Emma. He taunted Scott by bending to one knee, an absurd gallantry he imagined would fit his comic book character, though none of them had read more than a few tattered issues during ninth grade health class.

Emma sucked on the joint delicately, worried it might be mixed with a stronger drug, including (at least, by her lights) tobacco. Dipping her chin, she passed it to Scott, who either saw her anxiety as the obvious next question or—as he preferred to think—could read her mind, if only a little. “It’s pure. Don’t worry. We’re all nice, clean, young men.”

They laughed, but the Professor wagged a finger. “Be careful how you treat each other. I booked us in five dance bars just today. With luck, we can tour six months, maybe more. Providing we escape the typical mind-fucks and freak-outs. Agreed?”

They nodded Scott’s hand rested lightly on Emma’s shoulder. Sean picked a fleck off of his tongue and wiped his finger clean along Scott’s back. What could you do? Until Scott slipped up, grew overconfident or restless, Sean watched behind his drums. The moment Scott decided some fetching groupie could benefit from an hour with him, Sean, if he so desired—and by then he would know Emma more or less—could console her, and perhaps continue to console her.

Professor X took his role as manager seriously. His high-school friends knew from long experience if anyone crossed his idiosyncratic moral rules, the Professor would harangue them no end. They could never figure out how exactly the Professor’s internal engine worked. His taste ran toward older women, smarter and sophisticated. But he never demonstrated any urgency, happiness or sorrow toward them. Luckily, so far anyway, whatever defenses fell to exhaustion, boredom, or  squalor never amounted to more than a flare of temper or an outburst of frustration.

Time to run through the songs, using Emma’s voice. Naturally, Scott and Emma had receded into the bar’s blacked-out depths, around a corner, judging from the acoustics. Sean offered to track the duo down. After a few paces, he perceived enough of their energy, the pleasurable exchange of soft breath and respectful touching to call from a corner, “Time to hit the stage.” Scott and Emma emerged holding hands. “I was just telling Emma about her back story,” Scott said, “so she won’t laugh at my half-ass lyrics, since even if they’re silly, they match her persona.”

“Yeah, well, we need everybody up there, drums, keys, vocals—”

“We’ll find our way; we’ll even get there first.”

And they did, through a door Sean’s mutant radar-like senses had missed. While he tromped to his drum-set, Emma already swayed, diaphanous in the spotlight, holding a sheet of paper. The song began with Sean’s quiet-one, loud-two. The lyrics were so silly, Emma hesitated. But Scott had promised that the electronic echoes and her voice’s altering pitch, as the beats stretched long then sped into one, would lend the words an astral significance.

She sang: Try to teach you, guys, when I’m out here performing / But you’re just not ready for my telepathic platforming / Without me, you’re finished, lost  / My power cancels you, babies,  from the inside out / You’ll have nothing left, have no doubt.

The chorus was simply: Emma Frost, Emma Frost, Emma Frost, running and twisting, bending and echoing. Her mind absorbs yours first and last, propel you into Future Past. Emma Frost, Emma Frost, Emma Frost.

This time they all clapped. She sounded mesmerizing. They practiced past dawn.

8) Regalia

Scott, the Cyclops, gambled that they could siphon off enough electricity to rehearse one more night, before the utility plant cut them off. Another night like the last two and even the sleepiest night supervisor would perk up at the vast current crackling through the jerry-rigged connections. By now they hung out at Emma’s in the afternoon, so it wasn’t just the electricity; her parents seemed about to blow. Luckily, tomorrow they would pack up and start heading east.

Scott and Emma admired each other’s costumes. Emma explained to Sean and Kurt that her girlfriends had scattered. She couldn’t invite a friend to attend a rehearsal so the guys could show off. Without a girlfriend to advise her, Emma asked her mother to help her shop for a stage wardrobe, knowing Mrs. Wyman would buy her all the snowy, sparkley, gauzy shifts, mini-skirts, and crystalline-patterned dancer’s gear available.

Scott had told her that while on the road, clothing got grimy. And on stage, it got ripped and tattered. So Emma should double what she thought necessary. For the Cyclops, Scott scored a pair of old moon boots from eBay. The red metallic wraparounds were a prize from the winter he had worked as a ski instructor, despite his lack of proficiency. One summer he had worked at a Renaissance Fair (far easier) and so owned a well-worn leather tunic.

Kurt, the Nighthawk, dyed his hair inky blue. A shop for hardcore horror fans sold him vivid yellow cat’s eye contact lenses. The Professor wanted him to project the character’s holographic aura. So X had “won” a dizzying, hyper-reflective male bodysuit, also from eBay. Kurt hated it until he found an ellipse-shaped space collar extending past his ears from a Halloween outlet store. He added an indigo, knee-length cape, insisting that even if in the comics, the Nighthawk never wore one, the drapey material hung like giant wings, and thus epitomized a hawk.

Sean, the Banshee, had bleached his black hair and re-dyed it bright orange. He had grown used to the deep green contact lenses, but if the Professor expected him to put on a vivid green Lyra bodysuit covered with an artist’s attempts to paint a trompe d’loeil of bulging muscles, then Sean insisted that the Professor use a wheelchair, as X-Men lore demanded. Professor Charles Xavier might be able to make himself invisible, create ectoplasm, and inflict unconsciousness upon whomever he wished, but the mutant’s spine was shattered. “No getting around it, X.” Foreseeing the situation, Sean had paid $125 for a perfectly functional wheelchair.

X caved—he’d annoyed his drummer enough. Heading for the condemned Club 420, the Professor and Emma departed from the Wyman’s in X’s white van. Emma’s brother Nick had earlier begged to accompany them, but he vanished after dinner—visiting his girlfriend. Scott drove the bigger gray van, Sean beside him, Kurt in back.

To Scott’s mind, no solution would actually appease Sean. The drummer harped on the Banshee ID, when his real complaint lay grounded in Scott and Emma’s instantaneously intense rapport. Sean was jealous, that’s all. True, the guy took pride in his Chinese heritage to the point where he had spent years studying the country’s extensive history, even tackling Mandarin at Chinese school. He had always insisted he wouldn’t marry a woman who was not Chinese. But ever since he had turned thirty, he dated WASP-y girls. Emma was a Catholic by birth, but maybe her exaggerated whiteness made up for that. While driving the van Scott had risked pointing out that in real life, under the make-up Emma actually was nice and pale. They had all met her family by now. The Wyman’s predecessors all traced their lineage to Ireland. No other color in the mix.

“What’s your point, here, exactly? She’s not my type; is that what you mean, Scott?”

Scott thought, Oh fuck, so touchy. But then he was totally, even grotesquely, in the wrong here. “Nothing, Sean. I’m sorry. I was out of line, an idiot. Sorry.”

The vans pulled up outside the boarded-up building, their last chance to get their act together.

Scott hauled out the wheelchair Sean had bought. Once inside, he told the Professor that any woman with motherly instincts would pulverize her rivals for the privilege of caring for the great Professor, master of manipulation and astral projection. Sensitive to his friend’s fixation on dignity, Scott had also brought along a top hat and white, magician-like gloves. If X considered them a bit much, Scott would fling them into the club’s cavernous darkness. But no, Professor X declared these (again unorthodox) props to be just the thing.

Earphones clamped on beneath the top hat, the Professor’s skill mixing sound and light was subtler, the illusion more magical.

Scott presented two new songs, both paeans to Emma’s sexy innocence. Emma sang passionately about Scott the Cyclops. His ruby red optic blasts had grown out of control. Her therapeutic cure consisted of telepathy in the form of psychic, sexual interplay. Sean drummed two beats ahead of everyone, emitting between verses, an unscripted virtuoso Banshee scream.

9) The Deafening Scream

Sean the Banshee’s deafening scream lasted less than a minute but seemed like forever. The dynamic quality alarmed the Professor so much that he checked his face for a nose bleed. During the siege, Emma, Scott, and Kurt froze, literally stunned—just as described in the comics.

The pitch changed three times and when it finally started to drop, Sean the Banshee continued drumming two beats ahead of the song. Twice more during the song, Sean exploded. His shriek’s aural force was unnatural, if not supernatural. Desperate for cover, the Professor’s addled brain smashed into two overlooked realities. First, the band could only afford to travel in one vehicle—obviously Scott’s considerably bigger van, seats to be reinstalled. The Professor wondered if Emma’s parents would agree to let him keep his ill-gotten ride stashed in their garage. Second, no matter what, Sean’s drums took up too much space. Five people and their gear presented challenge enough.

Scott’s next song evoked more sonic bombs, further establishing the newborn situation. That astonishing scream rocked the atmosphere, rattling their tooth fillings so thoroughly that it defined the band. Now that the sound existed—Emma Frost and the X-Men were nothing without it. On the off-chance the Professor was overreacting, Scott and Kurt both signaled him otherwise: Sean’s deafening, interminable holler reactivated the band’s nerve center. More than their signature, the inhuman screams of purple-black rage had blasted them into coherence. Unless they chose to quit and plod hopelessly home, the Banshee’s scream henceforth possessed the group’s heart, soul, blood, guts, and—its breath.

Scott’s four new songs with lyrics for Emma and the Professor’s two instrumental numbers would not register minus the scream. The band’s music would disintegrate without the Banshee’s vocal detonations, leaving nothing but silence. How was that possible? Any answer here was too esoteric for their tiny minds, besides unnecessary. Their band was transformed. They all knew it.

Calling it a night as sunlight cut through the city, the Professor took Scott aside. “Will you tell him about the drum set? Tell him he’s genius on a small machine. But before that make sure he knows that we all recognize his scream is preeminent. Tell him he’s shattered barriers beyond barriers.”

“You tell him, X. Tell him what you just said, word for word. “

While his friends bickered (“You do it.” “No, you do it.”), Sean materialized. X and Scott noticed him hovering, eavesdropping even—as befit his character. His speaking voice sounded normal. “X, man, don’t you know what the scream’s about? Scott’s in no position to tell me anything. And no worries about the drum set. I never intended to drag it along. So, Scott, what’s your next move with Emma?”

“Emma?” The Professor nodded as she approached them, but then changed her mind, veering toward Kurt, who was half-way out the door.

“Nothing. She and I haven’t exchanged any vows. Although, I can guarantee you, she understands exactly what’s fueling the scream. All I ask is that everyone respect each other.”

“What about trust?  Do we each trust each other?”

Scott said, “All the same to me. So go ahead and talk to her. Tell her your secrets.”

“Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you, Cyclops?”

“Stop it,” the Professor said. “Both of you! The girl’s barely legal, and seriously naïve. Don’t play her like a game. Her father likes me. He trusts—and I say ‘trust’ without semantics here—he trusts me to look out for her.”

“She’s 22 years old,” Scott said. “So legally, X, legally—none of us is entitled to look out for her unless she invites us.”

The Professor muttered, shit, while massaging the left side of his face. “I’m getting a migraine. Let go of this and let’s get going.”

Scott arrived at the Wyman’s the next afternoon, sound equipment stored inside a bin fixed to the van’s roof. Sean and Kurt had help reinstall the two back-seat rows and a last single seat. Gym bags of personal effects fit on the floor. Emma, allowed two bags, had waved and kissed her family good-bye. Pulling away, Scott asked, “Where to?”

“Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.” The Professor quickly added, “Three nights, three sets at the Milky Way. But for Friday and Saturday nights, I managed to talk an old buddy into booking us at Sister Sadie’s, downtown Chicago.”

10) It's Not You

The band followed Professor X’s management without complaint. True, when he handed out copies of the itinerary, which listed gigs in Gary, Kalamazoo, Battle Creek, and in the good-sized city of Cleveland, had secured but one event at Cuyahoga Community College—an urge arose to ask if this was the best he could do.

“We’ll pick up gigs as we go,” X assured them. “ It’ll get better.”

Overall, his friends respected X’s first-hand experience running bars and lounges, even if they had all failed in the end. Even if high school, X had played the role of affable and humorous mediator. Everyone had always loved him.

His natural salesmanship, as they remembered it, used to lure him into over-the-top performances that invariably earned money. When his buddies recalled how at sixteen X had broken Time magazine’s all-time record for over-the-phone subscription peddling, they would chuckle, one guy’s memory cracking up another’s.

“And don’t forget the summer he sold ties at Bloomingdales’.” Scott enjoyed bringing this up. Ties had just gone out of style but the Professor sold the store’s entire stock, for which he won a national contest, a week’s vacation in Hawaii. So as necessary as his stage lighting and sound control were, based on his familiarity with them and their characters, X’s position as the band’s manager, they all agreed, was even more essential.

The Wisconsin gigs were Scott’s idea. He had learned to ski (not very well) at Lake Geneva. “Best downhill trails in the Midwest.” His family owned a weekend farm in Burlington, which lay just north of Lake Geneva. And years ago, he spent many weekend nights at The Milky Way, because back then the bar had an unusually lax carding policy.

His family rarely visited the four-bedroom farmhouse anymore, so he felt confident the band could crash there before and after a solid night’s work. The one hour-plus car trip would allow them time to settle in and prepare leisurely for their first show at nine-thirty pm.

Both Scott and X doubted the bar would pull in nearly enough customers to warrant three sets, the third advertised as “After Hours.”  But if the Milky Way wanted to pay for the shows as billed, the band could use the practice. Turning in his seat, X explained that they should approach these Wisconsin gigs as paid practice sessions. “Don’t worry if the crowd’s thin or no one dances.”

That evening I-94 stretched ahead free and clear. The few other cars en route all exceeded the speed limit by fifteen to twenty mph. That was typical. The posted rules only applied if the highway had gotten backed up, because of a traffic jam or a high-speed accident.

To everyone’s surprised relief, after the Banshee’s destiny-altering screams and the primal tensions it had set vibrating among them, no one argued about who sat where. Scott drove and X, as manager, took the seat beside him. Emma said she preferred the lone back seat because it was bucket-shaped. This freed Sean to recline along the second row, while Kurt took the third.

Emma’s hair was already showing a half-inch of dark roots, which for the stage, she covered with baby powder. But during the ride north, she stared at the van’s locked back door, gauging her feelings and smiling inwardly. When the others had been preoccupied getting to leave, Scott had slipped quietly beside her, taken her hand, and put a finger to his lips, “Shshsh.” They stole off to an odd corner patch of the Wyman’s lawn and tiptoed beneath a rose-entwined trellis.

Without a word, acting a bit shy, Scott handed her three Emma Frost comic books from the mid-80s, which she slipped inside her purse. “One more thing,” he said, biting his lip as he pulled from his back pocket a silver crocheted cap. Gently, his breath long and slow, he fitted it on top of her head and stood back, fighting a grin. He stepped closer and deftly released white tendrils of hair to frame her face. And dipping a little, he slid his fingers inside the cap again, finding longer spirals behind her ears to decorate her long, delicate neck. Her fresh-scrubbed face beamed above cut-off jeans, a black tank top, and flat sandals.

They gazed at each other. He touched the tip of her nose and they emerged from opposite sides of the house, back to the driveway.

No one noticed the hat except for Kurt who had not commented on anything that week. Catching Emma’s eye before boarding the van, he winked and smiled. As mixer and spinner, Kurt, the Nighthawk, whose mutant power was a weak, lateral form of teleporting, was certainly as indispensable as anyone else, just less conspicuous.

Emma waited until they exited off  I-94 onto Route 142 before fetching the comics from her purse. While everyone else sank into their seats, mesmerized, plugged into their iPods, she discovered an oversized post-card of “The Wave” by Hokusa, paper-clipped to the second comic book.  On the back, Scott’s meticulous hand-printed little note read:

Dear Emma, If anything between you and me ever bothers you, please tell me about it without waiting. And if anything between me and Sean worries or confuses you, let me know. If Sean and I get into a thing where we’re competing for you, believe me, sweet Emma Frost, you're not the problem. An altogether different rivalry is the real issue.
So, never let yourself feel guilty.
Our own ridiculous bullshit will be what’s provoking Sean and me to butt heads. Nothing you could do or say (or more) could hurt anyone.  Your entire being is a gift to us, and whatever you want—anything—will only make us happy, individually and as a group. We’re so lucky you’ve agreed to be Emma—lucky and grateful.

11) It's Him

Emma read Scott’s note several times before the van pulled up to a local diner. It was nearly six pm., and Emma felt sick with desire. If Scott did not seduce her soon, she would seduce him. Up until now, she had laughed, backing away after he touched her, so her quickened heartbeat and ecstatic breath might subside. All those times, when he gazed into her eyes, while continuing to clasp her hand, caress her shoulder—or worse—her neck, she had almost toppled forward. Eyes closed, she could have easily thrown her arms around him, whether in front of everyone else or not. But as romantically as he treated her (those love songs), he kept his focus casual. Was his close attention to her just a gallant pose? She worried, because her obvious physical reaction to him afflicted her with self-consciousness. She knew too well how flushed her skin must look; how glittery her eyes, dark pupils swamping blue irises.

No comic-book telepathy required here; her lust for the cordial songwriter charged the air; his presence was enough to tip her awareness into the surreal. While the X-Men traipsed into the diner, she hung back, slowing gait, imagining her body adrift and languid. Emma strived for nonplussed patience.

The four men had claimed a big table in the back. Sean and Kurt sat in chairs facing Scott, who sat on an upholstered bench topped by a mirrored wall. X had pulled up a chair to head the table, leaving her the space beside Scott.

“We told them we’re in a hurry,” X said. “They actually remembered Scott here, so we’ve already ordered the turkey club for everyone.”

X winked and excused himself for a minute.

Kurt complimented her silver cap, which Scott had given her a few hours ago. “It’s nice, not Halloween. I don’t mind playing silly, but if the band gets too stupid? Playing ‘stupid’ won’t last a week, no matter what X says.”

Under the table, Scott rested a hand on her bare thigh, below her cut-offs. “You don’t need to wear it all the time,” he said.

Emma leaned back against the booth, eyes closed. “It’s more comfortable than not wearing it.” She exhaled slowly. The waitress brought their food and Scott’s palm lifted before the sensation sent her over the edge. X returned and they all ate fairly quickly.

Emma alone had never seen the farmhouse. During high school, Scott and the others had spent weekends there, when Scott’s parents, both employed by Searle Labs, were traveling to conventions. The rambling farmhouse had allowed Scott’s parents to entertain groups of friends. The second floor contained two small bedrooms, one larger one, and a good-sized bathroom. The first floor included a living room, kitchen, and screened-in porch. Off the entranceway a diverging hall led to a master bedroom and bath, and beyond that to a woman’s study, with a pull-out couch. Outside, half a field away, the farm’s garage included a cozy, private living space, complete with a futon, a sound system, and small, lush throw rugs.

Scott parked the van in front of the white clapboard house five minutes after they left the local diner. At seven pm, the sun hung low but would not sink entirely for another two hours. The Milky Way’s manager had booked them for a nine-thirty show. X announced the plan to leave the farm at nine-thirty (no band with any pride arrived on time), all in full costume.

Scott unlocked the door and X, Sean, and Kurt tossed their bags toward the stairs and sank into the couch or a lounge chair facing a huge, new TV. Sean, in the lounger, found the remote. Emma and Scott watched their immediate immersion from the hall. Scott tossed his gear in the master bedroom and suggested Emma follow suit, “Just for now. We’ll straighten everything out later.”

Then he led her outside where the delayed sunset had gilded the grass and sky. For the hundredth time he took her hand, holding it closer, though, as they stumbled in sync toward a wide, quiet river. He leaned against the trunk of a great weeping willow, watching her as she watched the water. Moving softly, he reached for her, turning her around as she slid behind the curtain of leafy willow branches. He pulled her against him, lifted her by the waist, and kissed her. Just before he dropped back against the tree trunk, she wrapped her legs around him. They kissed and kissed until they grew too weak, and gasped. Her eyes beaded with joy but he was already hurrying her across the field, his mouth by her ear saying how desperate he was for her. How he had never wanted anyone as much as her—never, the second he saw her. They dashed inside the garage’s living space, and Scott locked a deadbolt.

They made love balanced on a side table, and then under it on soft, furry rugs. Both of them naked now, he held her at arm’s length, amazed, his mind arrested at the sight of her, even if her lithe, flawless body had appeared before him night and day for two weeks straight.

He made her cry with pleasure and on the futon she made him cry out: Not scream, nothing fraught or obscene. His last, resonant echo elicited a grateful joy.

His cell phone interrupted. It was X. Could they get into costume and into the van? They were already twenty minutes later than late.

12) Don't Get Too Comfortable

Inside the Milky Way, the band found a small round stage and enough empty space for dancing. Scott figured vacationers in groups might dance around the stage and between the tables and bars, but only a certain kind, like at a slap-happy drunk singles’ club. The audience of eight people at the bar, six men, two women, and four couples at the tables, didn’t look like the type, but there were more of them than he had expected.

Emma stood off to the side, while Kurt and Sean plugged in surge strips and extension cords, getting ready to boot up. Scott quickly put together the stand and set his keyboard down. He wanted to know what Emma was thinking. Crossing the stage, he drew her close, touching her quickly, lightly, aware  of nothing but her. Even his first love wasn’t this obsessive, this fast. But as much as he needed to kiss her, he could see she was scared. So he asked, “Stage fright?”  And when she nodded, embarrassed, he led her outside, signaling X as they passed: five minutes.

Since he had taken her as a lover, like diving into an underwater world, he hated to surface. The clamor in his blood only demanded more sex, more furiously, which was ridiculous. But, shit, so fantastic—what fool would resist the joy standing beside him?  “Want to smoke? I mean, does it calm you?”

He had three joints in his glove compartment. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She kicked at the gravel and he bit his lip to keep from sweeping her along side him. It just about killed him, imagining them locked in the van and what he could do to her. And had he known for sure she was equally sick?  Then, nothing would stop him. So what about everyone else, waiting to play comic book songs. But if he smoked with her, played the songs, maybe at the break…

They smoked half of it before she was giggling, swaying as he pulled her into his arms, while she, moving to a rhythm they shared, spun away. “They’ll wonder…” she skipped away, and he followed her inside.

Kurt was spinning old-fashioned house music. X called Scott over before turning and sniffing a fat line off the back of his hand. “I thought you had stopped,” Scott said.

“Almost. I’ve almost stopped. And you—what’re you up to?”

“Stage fright. But now she’s fine.”

“We’re all fine. Sean and Kurt expected this but you’ve got to know, first time you disappoint her, they’ll both try anything to win her over.”

“No way in hell I’ll ever disappoint her, X. And as for you, if you’ve only almost stopped, better let me handle the money.” Agreeing, X settled into his wheelchair.

Scott was watching Emma on the stage, the lights pooling around her silver sandals. Remembering he hadn’t set up, he hurried on stage. No time left to test the sound, he nodded at X, who wheeled into the light. “Ready, steady, go.”

Sean played the drum machine better than real drums. His beats varied, instead of driving the songs. In rehearsals, he had found only a portion of his teeth-rattling vocal skills, but now his screams rocked the building. His ability to change pitch in the middle, or just after the peak, with the end trailing longer than seemed possible shot the audience onto their feet, like a Pavlovian response. The six women and three of the men danced.

And Emma—Scott decided her voice, singing lyrics he had written about his comic book character’s love for her and their telepathic exchanges, rang secret chimes he never knew existed.

So at the break he banished any ideas about whisking her into the van. For the moment, just looking at her and listening to her while they smoked tantalized him beyond belief.

Six men stayed for the second set, which repeated the first, but not exactly. And the band found a deep groove for the after-hours crowd: a few diehard drinkers and the same bartender who had poured Scott his first beer.

The bartender, Stan Schultz, who was also the owner, said they could leave their equipment in place for tomorrow, but X insisted it went contrary to the band’s policy, much as they appreciated the offer. By the time they had packed up the van, everyone was hungry.

Except Scott; he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to get Emma alone, first in the bath and then in his bed. But the local diner was open at four a.m., so they drifted in, all of them happy and high, ordering pancakes or omelets.  How businesses up here survived, open 24/7, mystified Scott.

When they arrived at the farmhouse, close to six a.m., a silver Cadillac sat in the driveway. Scott had not spoken to his father in years, but here he was. And with the group stretching and groaning just behind him, Scott suppressed the impulse to flee and unlocked the door. His father stood there, dressed for work, his bulk filling the narrow hall. Scott extended a hand toward his father, when a twinge of uncharacteristic embarrassment flitted across his father’s face. This strange, unlikely coloring between father and son rippled with mutual confusion. Why am I backing away? Oh, okay. Caroline Wheatley, his ex-girlfriend, had emerged from the bedroom, also dressed for work in Chicago, that’s why.

13) Worlds Collide

The band hung back until the Cadillac transporting Scott’s father and Scott’s ex-girlfriend disappeared around the bend.

Elbows propped on the van, Scott steadied his head as worlds collided. The impact suspended him in blinding light and stupefying thunder. Covering his eyes, he watched through his flesh and bones the last of the planet scatter from flames to embers.

Sean lit a joint and passed it to Emma. “Caroline,” Sean told her, “is a rapacious, money- freak.”

Despite the explosive destruction surrounding him, Scott perceived the Banshee handing Emma the smoke. And he heard him continue talking to her: “Caroline chased Scott shamelessly, since what could be better than snagging the handsome, only son of two directors?”

Bursting with rage, Scott lifted his head, ready to tear Sean apart, but Emma was already pressing her warm open palm into Scott’s middle back. He turned and she flattened her other palm wide against his solar plexus, and whispered on tiptoes, “Can you and I sleep somewhere else tonight?”

He held her gently but close. “Let them rest here,” she said. “Your dad’s done interfering.”

Emma strapped herself into the passenger’s seat, while Scott asked X to retrieve their bags from the revolting sanctum. Relieved that Scott wasn’t insisting they all run off, X retrieved both bags. But standing there, in the interval before Scott rolled up the window, X picked up a telepathic flickering.

“Don’t abandon us. Seriously. I need this band. As a cover. These guys from New Mexico want to kill me.”

“You’ll be all right, X. You always are. Just check the mailbox, end of the driveway about four this afternoon.”

“Don’t dismantle the band, Scott. Your father and Caroline Wheatley? How could you possibly care?”

“Just check the mailbox.”

The van sped down the gravel road, leaving X, Sean, and Kurt in front of the farmhouse’s open front door. Not looking at Emma, Scott said, “No more comic book shit for us. I’m Derrick; you’re Jess.”

At a stop sign he kissed her closest two fingertips, unprepared for how his stomach would tighten and his lungs heave.  He so loved this girl. How he had gotten himself so totally far gone? Suddenly, Jess was all Derrick had ever wanted, or ever would want.

“No mutant powers?” she was asking.

“Just us—Derrick and Jess.” He pulled into a fancy hotel, and pleaded with the manager to let them use a lake view room before afternoon check-in. Since, after all, no one else was using it. 

The posh little bedroom had Wi-Fi, which Derrick would need. Meanwhile, hell-bent on persuading her to run off with him, he was marshalling a compelling list of rationales. But once again, his desire sent him into oblivion. Later: They would talk sensibly, later. Jess’s own avid sexuality overwhelmed him. His plan was to make her feel what she had never felt before; take her to new heights so pleasurable that nothing else mattered.

Inside a steamy shower, they soaped each other, slowly and silently. Arching his neck, the shower splashing off his closed eyelids, he felt Jess hold onto his hips as she knelt facing him. Her thumb and forefinger tightened around the shaft, her other hand cupping him below. Her mouth tightened around the under-lip as her tongue spiraled around. Derrick had to lift her up abruptly or risk losing it.   

After drying them, he carried her to the wide, turned-down bed. Just looking down at her, he had to fight another urge to give it all up right then and there. Her lithe, tight little body shifted as her long smooth limbs reached for him. She smiled from barely lifted eyelids.

He licked the ruffley pink flag, signaling the way to her small, dark entranceway inside. He licked the elongated pert stiff ruffle, his mind focused on nothing else. Eventually, though, he folded his tongue in half over the little flag, pressing it more and more. Jess tugged his hair and Derrick heard a round, ripe laugh rising from deep in her belly. The sound’s sweet pealing put the Banshee’s primitive scream to shame. Derrick lifted himself to her side, where she was still laughing helplessly.

When she covered her face, blushing, tears spilled from her eyes’ far corners, and for half a breath he worried. “Why are you crying?”

Sitting, she turned his face to look directly at her. “Don’t you recognize ecstatic tears when they’re falling for you, because of you?”

14) Escape to Paradise

Derrick's extraordinary attraction to Jess sent his mind sliding along strange tangents. Thirty-years-old, possessing looks, wealth, mad skills, and madder education, he had always attracted girls as regularly as, say, swallowing. And, he thoroughly enjoyed all sorts of women. He loved the smart, talkative ones, the shy, poetic ones; bookish girls and party girls. But slender little Jess towered over them, and in a way, over him.

By two that afternoon he was still soaring. His passion for her released him from mundane requirements like eating and sleeping. He had made love to her from early morning past noon. But whenever he began to get out of bed, he ached for her all over again, as if he hadn’t seen her in years. Fifteen minutes after finishing, he was begging for more, as if her love were his sole source of oxygen.

Finally though, she curled up and fell asleep. He watched as her knees rose toward her chest and her breathing grew shallow. He watched long enough to notice her eyes moving behind her fringe of lashes. Jess was dreaming.

Pulling a laptop from his duffel, he charged airline tickets from O’Hare to San Jose, Costa Rica, and from there to Tamarindo on a rickety, low-flying Nature Air flight. Derrick’s friends, Sierra and Ericka, lived in a huge white house there. The rainy season on the Pacific coast meant wet afternoons, nothing more. Otherwise, mountains and beaches, wildlife, surfing, and yoga retreats, whatever Jess liked, to fill several carefree months.

Later, he’d take her to the Osa Peninsula, where another friend, Nando, ran a “green” resort within a semi-cultivated patch of jungle by the beach. Up a hill from the thatched cabanas, past trees filled with Scarlet Macaws, monkeys leaped across treetops beneath six waterfalls. Who would turn down a trip like that, because of a gig singing at bars and community colleges with the X-Men?

He wrote X a short letter, explaining what his friend had already realized. He and Jess were escaping to Costa Rica for six months, maybe more. X could pick up the van from O’Hare’s temporary parking, top level. Derrick’s keyboards, his songs and lyrics, all belonged to the band. He also suggested that X call up Jess’s brother, Nick, and ask him to drive X’s old white van up to Wisconsin. Nick would then drive them to O’Hare. And X should sound out the band as to whether they were willing to invite Nick to continue traveling with them. If nothing else, Derrick wrote, consider him a roadie. Nick would love it; anyone could see how much he wanted to play X-Men with the big guys.

Ignoring a stab of guilt, Derrick called the front desk about copying the van’s keys. “Twenty minutes at most, sir.”

Handing the keys to the hotel worker, he said, despite himself, “Don’t lose them. They’re really valuable.” Derrick’s van contained their computers, synthesizers, recorded music, scribbled notations, cables, lights, amps—everything.

But the biggest question, the one that loomed so big and so bad, was: Would Jess run off with him, no questions asked? Earlier he had assumed she would stick beside him until he asked her to leave, which he never would. But Jess had already surprised him more than he would’ve ever imagined. Aside from loving her beyond all bounds, how well did he know her? She sang a sweet, shaky alto, requiring electronic enhancement, and would more or less dance to anything. She was sexier than any woman, ever. And if Derrick could persuade her to marry him, he would say and do whatever she requested; he’d perform any feat. Gladly, and then some, Derrick would do Jess’s bidding forever after.

Clearly, he had lost his mind.

What were the odds she carried a passport? If not, they would hide out in California. Providing when he asked her to run away with him, she answered, “Derrick, why not? Why not escape to the jungle?”

Where was his sanity? What had happened? He finished dressing, brushed his teeth, and paced the hotel hallway so as not to wake her. Right away, though, he turned to catch her grin peeking out at him. He gravitated to her pixie face. “Are you dressed?” They needed to talk and he couldn’t manage it unless she was thoroughly zipped and buttoned. So he waited.

Sitting across from him, she said, “Passport, check.” Last time she drove, a cop had pulled her over and demanded her birth certificate. Naturally, she had thought he was joking. He wasn’t. “New security rules. You know, to keep the city safe from any never-born people. Either way, I got way too vehement. But first, and worst, I laughed at him. My dad had to come and bail me out.”

“So, would you be willing—”

Claiming she had anticipated his further questions, Jess jumped into his lap and said, “Yes, yes, and yes.”

(The End)