There had been stories around the school about her. But then again, there are stories around the school about everyone and everything. Professor Munroe, some have said, was considered a goddess in her small village because of her gifts. And Doctor Grey, some say, had had a thing for Wolverine before she married Mister Summers. Xavier and Magneto were once the closest of friends.

Few believe these stories but they're always told. We all know them by heart.

They say she was young once. Some whisper that she was young once not too long ago, but not many believe them. Most believe that if she was young once, it would be a long-ago once, a once few remember and about which even fewer care. Her eyes are too old to have been young a millenia ago. It must, most tell themselves, have been a long time.

I wondered.

When I was sixteen I realized I could count the veins in my arms. I would pull out the pink beachtowel I had had since I could remember and lie in my backyard under the sun, trying to get my color back.

It never came.

It got so I could look in the mirror and see the bones in my face. It was gross and terrifying and almost cool at the same time. I couldn't leave the house, of course. The of course had been added sometime during the month of August, when the hours under the hot sun had done nothing.

I was almost gone.

I'd heard them -- Doctor Grey, Mister Summers, Professor Munroe -- talking about her. They spoke with a warmth and caring that's anything but perfunctory and extraordinarily real. They said her name the way I remember my mother saying mine when I had the flu and it makes me long for the smell of Vick's VapoRub.

I miss my mother.

She was quiet and smart and sweet and utterly unprepared for what I turned out to be. She used to toss me SPF 30 sunblock on the cloudiest of summer days and it was when she handed me baby oil intsead of Coppertone on my way out to the backyard one day that I knew something was wrong. She smiled at me with tears in her eyes as the days went on and I got worse, worry carried in bags under her eyes. And then one day the smile was gone and only the tears were left and she was telling me I was going away to get help she couldn't give me. I was surprised to find myself strong enough to comfort her, to reach over and take her in my arms, when I felt my world coming apart.

She jumped when I touched her, for she hadn't seen me coming.

It was her cloak that drew me to her. I saw her walking on a warm day wearing three layers too many and felt a kinship, felt a sense of I-get-you that had become preciously rare. I wanted to run up to her and tell her about the new lightweight tights I had found, wanted to ask her where she got that dark hooded cloak and could I borrow it sometime? From a distance I could imagine her answer to be yes.

Up close, of course, I knew her answer would be none at all.

Most say she's insane, but it didn't seem right to me. When I think of insane I think of bedlam, I think of violently thrown furniture and screaming fits and cruel nurses. I think of wild eyes and jerky movements and noise. I think of things I don't see in her. But still I know her to be far from sanity. I knew it from the moment I passed her on the grounds and saw in her eyes that her mind was slowly drowning.

Her room is far away, on a wing few in the school use. It's not forbidden so much as avoided, an out of the way place with little air circulation and mostly empty rooms. They say she ended up there because of her nightmares, they say that they got so loud they disturbed all those around her. It seemed odd because during the day she carries an unnatural silence.

I knocked on the sterile door and wasn't surprised when no one answered. I knew she was there -- had seen her enter the room minutes before -- and Professor Xavier had warned me of this. I pushed the door open and called a greeting softly, not expecting an answer.

I went in and at first it felt strange to be there. She sat in a hard-backed chair by the room's one window and stared at the green expanse of the estate. I sat on the edge of her precisely made bed and played with my hands and wondered why on earth I had come.

And then she looked up.

I always visited on Tuesdays at a little past four in the afternoon and stayed for an hour or so. I was always a little nervous when I first knocked on the door and entered the room, always a little anxious that all the times before had been flukes. But then I would sit on the edge of the bed and after a few moments she would take her eyes from the window and look up at me.

And she would smile.

I had never seen her smile before that first day. Ever. I had seen her walking the grounds at a distance and up close, but never had I seen her smile. I had thought her incapable of it. But then that day she glanced up at me and the corners of her mouth had turned up in a slow, sweet smile and I had almost fallen off the bed in surprise.

She had been young once, I decided then. And it had been a recent once, a once many remember and about which more still care.

She never spoke and I didn't much mind. I sat and revelled in the fact that she didn't look terrified at the sight (or lack thereof) of me, and just talked. I told her about my day, about how annoying it was to wear long sleeves on hot days, about how well I had done on my last Physics test. I talked about everything and nothing and I liked it.

She watched me and listened to me talk and sometimes she nodded or smiled. I wasn't quite sure if she understood what I was saying -- the far-off look in her eyes never quite faded and her smile sometimes reminded me of the one the international students who hadn't grasped English wore -- but I always kept talking. My soul felt lighter every time I came.

I had found my second true friend.

My first true friend was Beth. Doctor Grey and Professor Xavier fit the calm and serene image of telepaths I held in my mind, and Beth broke it. Most people think she's a little too-everything -- too loud, too brash, too wild -- but to me she's just right. She's unapologetically real and she accepted me from the moment I walked into what would be our room, greeting me with an outstretched hand and a smile.

"I'm Beth," She had said, blowing a stray curl out of her face. "Let's be friends."

I took in her mismatched outfit, the chocolate stain on the front of her shirt, the unregulated mess on her side of the room, and finally the lack of unease in her eyes and smiled back, fitting my unseeable hand into hers.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Let's."

She was how I discovered the truth. There was an accident in the Danger Room, an older student hurt, and the ensuing pain and fear and sorrow and worry were enough to break through her flimsy shields. I was there when it happened, heard her strangled voice call my name.

I wasn't fast enough to catch her.

I knew that there was no way the fall from her desk chair would hurt her. By the time I reached her she had already rolled onto her side into the fetal position, her fingers pressing into her temples so hard that I knew it had to hurt. There was no comfort I could give for the pain she felt. I couldn't reach into her mind and push the voices out, couldn't raise my voice above those she heard in her mind and tell her everything would be all right.

I could and should have caught her, though.

It was nine when Doctor Grey finally kicked me out of the infirmary. She told me that Beth would be waking up soon and that rebuilding her psychic shields was a process best undertaken alone or with the help of fellow telepaths. I understood what she wasn't saying, that the presence of my loud mind so close to her would only disturb her, and left without much struggle.

I was surprised when I found myself on the remote South Wing of the estate. But, then again, I was scared and alone and worried and wasn't it natural that I should go visit the second of my two true friends?

I stared down the hall and saw the yellow glow under her door and felt my heart lighten a bit. I walked to her door, knocked, and didn't expect an answer.

"What?" The voice was rough, challenging, and male.

I opened my mouth to answer and no words came. The door flew open to reveal a man I had never seen before. He was tall and strong and menacing and I would have run if I'd had the presence of mind to do so.

"What the Hell is this?" He was staring at me and I saw a confusion and revulsion in his eyes that had become familiar.

"Um . . I . . I'm sorry," I stammered, trying to look past him into the room.

"You here to bother her? Give her a hard time?" He stepped towards me, his eyes trying to choose a place to focus on, and I felt my heart jump into my throat.

I glimpsed a gloved hand on his elbow and watched him spin around.

By the time he turned back, if he ever did, I was gone.

"What do you want to know?"

I wanted to know so many things.

Professor Xavier doesn't sleep much. Neither does Beth. Maybe it's a telepath thing; maybe it's just a coincidence. He's been known to stay in his office until two or three in the morning. I knew that night that I'd find him there.

I'm always taken aback by how calm he is. I stared into his clear eyes and wondered if anything ever disturbed this reserve as I considered his question. What did I want to know?

"Everything."

The security system of the estate is the best of its kind. It does, though, rely heavily on cameras.

I can get around that.

I skip through the cool night and welcome the night air on my skin and the grass blades between my toes. It is a liberating thing, knowing I can travel undiscovered. It's a wonderful thing.

I stop at the South Wing of the estate and see the lone dimly-lit window. Part of my mind screams that this was wrong, that I should turn and go back, that this is the last thing I should be doing.

Most of me can't resist.

I creep up to the window and peer in, my eyes gradually adjusting to the brightness within.

I watch as the man reaches over and strokes the woman's white hair while she sleeps, his face tense with emotion. I notice his hand shake a little bit when he takes it away and stares into her face. I feel a lump rise in my throat as he whispers something I can't hear, his lips inches from her ear.

There had been stories around the school about them. But then again, there are stories around the school about everyone and everything. Professor Munroe, some have said, was considered a goddess in her small village because of her gifts. And Doctor Grey, some say, had had a thing for Wolverine before she married Mister Summers. Xavier and Magneto were once the closest of friends.

Few believe these stories but they're always told.

The story of a feral man and the gentle soul he took under his wing is often told. How they rescued each other is whispered to newcomers on their first night, how they saved the world told over breakfast the next morning. The story ends with the revelation of how he left the girl with his dogtags and a promise to come back for them, only to return too late. Only to return after she had used her gift and given her life to save others in a brutal battle.

We all know the story, from unlikely beginning to tragic end, by heart.

I watch as he brushes her hair away with a gloved hand and reaches for the chain at the base of her throat.

No one ever told us she didn't die.

END