A fenced-off yard lay behind the back door, the forest stretching out beyond it, dappled in sunlight. Leaves whispered and rustled conspiratorially. The smell grew stronger. He unlatched the backyard gate and found it unlocked – another anomaly. It was usually locked from the inside when his parents were out. His heart rate beginning to climb, he eased it open and peered into the backyard.
The shout from the other side almost made him slam the gate back shut. There were dozens of people filling the yard, and it took a wide-eyed second for him to realize that he knew them all. If his biology had allowed it, he knew his face would have flushed red with embarrassment.
“Welcome home, son!” shouted Dan Borkowski, who snatched Vic into a bear hug. Martha followed close behind, beaming, turning the crushing embrace into a group effort.
“I thought you were at work,” was all Vic could think to say, feeling like an idiot.
“You think we’d miss you coming home after all this time?” Dan demanded, releasing him before gripping firmly onto his shoulders. He looked him up and down, grinning broadly. “Well, you haven’t grown at all, Vic!”
Vic rolled his eyes and broke free from his father’s grasp, trying not to laugh. Relief washed over him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t anticipated something like this – his mood since sitting the exam combined with his experiences on the road seemed to have darkened the world around him. Yet here was his home, his family, an oasis of peace and joy unblemished by the dirty pyre smoke that seemed to be slowly befouling so much else.
And it wasn’t just his family either. The yard was rammed with smiling, laughing faces, each from a time long before his current difficulties. Friends of his parents, neighbors, congregation members, employees from the electrics store, Dr Miller, old Mrs Keller, it seemed as though every person he’d known growing up had been packed into the space behind his house. They’d even gone in for a green and white banner, pinned up to the side of the house above the back door – “Welcome Home, to Fairbury’s Very Own X-Man.”
“How did you know I was coming?” he demanded, doing his best to mask his embarrassment. It wasn’t as though he didn’t appreciate the attention – you didn’t win the Institute Award for Best Student Actor two years running without being comfortable at the center of things – but the surprise of it had left him feeling awkward. Dan smacked his shoulder and pointed past him, out the back gate.
“We had an informant on the outside,” he said. Vic turned and saw Mrs Templeton coming around the side of the house looking decidedly pleased with herself.
“The driver wasn’t exactly thrilled when I got straight back off the bus again after you,” she said, winking at Vic and giving him a short, tender hug.
Vic threw his hands up, struggling to hide his own amusement. “Well, now you’re all making me doubt whether or not I’m cut out to be an X-Man! Lured in, stalked, and trapped! I’m going to need to call in the first team if I’m going to get out of this one!”
There was laughter and a few cheers. Martha took him by the elbow and steered him in front of the banner for a photo. Arms around his parents’ shoulders, he grinned and stuck his tongue out a whole foot, to gasps of amazement.
The faces descended on him, a swift and relentless barrage. Hugs, handshakes, air kisses, back pats. Smiles, laughter, jokes, questions. A voice called out through the press, firm and commanding.
“All right, all right, give the kid some space! He must be hungry!”
The crowd parted, and the source of the scent that had enticed him around the house was revealed. A grill was sizzling away in the center of the yard, overseen by his old baseball coach, Mike Martin. The big, apron-clad pitcher waved him over with a spatula, his voice as gruff as ever.
“How’s my champion batter?” he demanded, delivering yet another firm pat to Vic’s shoulder.
“He’s glad to be home,” Vic responded.
“Good,” Mike declared before he could continue. “Then we can all get on and eat! I’m starving! Here, hand these out. And watch Sammy, he’ll probably try and come back for seconds.”
He indicated the row of fresh buns on the table beside the grill, ignoring the halfhearted protestations of Sam, the reserve coach. Vic busied himself preparing burgers and hotdogs, handing them out as quickly as Mike could grill them. As the coach had doubtless already realized, doing so provided a far more orderly means for Vic to see everyone than the initial mobbing. He spoke about the curriculum at the Institute with Mrs Templeton, his old batting injury with Dr Miller, the hikes he’d gone on in Alberta with Mr and Mrs Rasheed. He asked the Carter family about his two old schoolfriends, Jayce and Claire. The former had moved over to Evansville to be with his partner, the latter had gotten into MIT. Vic had already noticed that the barbeque had a gap the size of his own age group. His circle of high school friends had been small and close-knit, but it seemed they’d all moved on. They were at college or had moved for work, but either way they now seemed to be mostly out of town. Vic couldn’t really blame any of them. After all, he’d done the same thing, even if the Institute wasn’t exactly the same as hauling maize trucks or studying architectural engineering at MIT.
The younger kids were still around though. And while the adults were careful when asking him about the Institute or hinting at his abilities, their children were not so consciously polite. A dozen of the neighborhood’s offspring – most of whom had been little tots when Vic had last seen them – were soon clustering around him, demanding his attention.
“How is it being an X-Man, Mr Borkowski?” the Jacksons’ daughter, Julia, asked in between mouthfuls of hotdog.
“Can you fly, Mr Victor, sir?” asked Mrs Templeton’s grandson before he could answer.
“Can we see your tongue again?” suggested the youngest of the gang, Charlie. The request was immediately backed up by a loud chorus of support.
“All right, but just this once,” Vic said, swallowing the last of his hotdog and squatting down so that he was at the same height as the rest of the group. After the slightest dramatic pause, he opened his mouth and let his tongue extend. The sight of the prehensile muscle elicited a squall of screeches, laughs, and exclamations of disgust. One of the smaller kids in particular got a fit of the giggles and could hardly remain standing.
“You said Cyclops and Emma Frost are in charge of your school,” Mari, one of the older children, asked earnestly. “Can you tell us about them?”
“I wanna know about Storm and Rogue,” Templeton’s grandson declared loudly.
“And Wolverine,” Charlie practically shouted. Again, the gang delivered a storm of approval, shouting animatedly over one another. The kid who’d been giggling was now just squealing with excitement.
It was a struggle for Vic not to laugh at their raw eagerness. And of course they all wanted to know about Wolverine. It didn’t seem to matter the age, any non-mutant he talked to about the X-Men wanted to know what it was like to be taught by “Weapon X.”
“He’s a pretty cool guy,” he said, causing an immediate hush to fall over the children. “But I’ll tell you one thing about him. He can’t do this.”
He took a step back so that he was almost up against the timber fence bordering the yard. Then he closed his eyes, relaxed his limbs, and shivered slightly.
A change crept rapidly over his skin, starting at his toes and fingertips and spreading like a rippling wave across his body. In just a few seconds every piece of flesh from his feet to his head spines had changed color to match the dark brown hue of the wood at his back. Keeping the fence as a mental picture in his head, he mottled parts of the tone to better blend with the grain of the timber. The result was an almost-perfect mimicry of his background, only ruined by the fact that he was still wearing jeans and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt that refused to blend in with the disguise.
While the tongue had mostly elicited disgust, the abrupt disappearing act drew
out a universal shocked gasp. Even a few of the onlooking parents couldn’t hide their surprise. Vic battled to keep his mouth shut when he smiled. The trick apparently never got old. His mom had told him that as a baby he’d done it instinctively, but it had taken years of practice before he was capable of doing it on command. He’d worked on it as vigorously in front of the mirror as he’d practiced his acting expressions. One day his mom had entered his room with an armful of laundry and not realized Vic was in there until he’d spoken to her. She’d yelped, dropped her laundry, and stormed out while demanding he put some clothes on.
“But we can still see what you’re wearing,” Julia pointed out sternly. Vic dropped the effect, the illusion of the varnished timber melting away in favor of his natural, pale green scales.
“That’s very true,” he acknowledged. “Normally if I’m practicing, or I’m going out on a secret mission, I have a special X-suit to wear. It can change like my skin, so I become almost completely invisible.”
More exclamations of awe. Most of the kids were just staring at him open-mouthed.
“Did you bring the suit too?” one at the back blurted out. “Can we see it? Please!”
“I didn’t bring it,” Vic admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d be doing much color-shifting while I was visiting home.”
There were some exclamations of dismay. Briefly no one said anything as the gathering digested what it had witnessed. Then Charlie stuck his hand up, as though he was afraid of interrupting the class in the middle of a lesson.
“Yes?” Vic asked him.
“Is it true Wolverine taught you how to fight, Mr Borkowski?”
Vic couldn’t help but laugh. It never did take long to get back onto Wolverine. He smiled and nodded, generating more awe from the assembly.
“He did, and a lot more besides. I don’t suppose anyone wants to hear about that though?”
Outrage and indignation greeted his teasing, making a few of the onlooking parents laugh. Vic held his hands up hastily.
“OK, OK! But if you really want to hear all the good stuff, we could be here for some time. So, make sure you’ve all got your hotdogs, and sit down.”
He led by example, taking a seat on the grass in front of the fence, cross-legged. The children scrambled to copy him, and in a few seconds he had a small semicircle of eager, serious faces ranged around him.
“So, first off,” Vic began. “Can anyone tell me what Wolverine’s claws are made of?”
Chapter Five
The shadows were getting long by the time the Borkowskis saw off the last of the welcoming party. Night looked as though it had already set in the forest beyond the backyard. A cool, fragrant darkness had spread slowly to envelop the houses ranged along the lane. Crickets began their chirring, and a trio of crimson cardinals were dancing in the air above the house, dashes of brilliance in the twilight.
Vic helped carry the used plates and napkins indoors while Dan took the banner down from the wall. It was the first chance he’d actually gotten to go inside since he’d arrived. Martha was already busy scrubbing down the grill rungs in the kitchen, dishwater threatening to overflow from the sink.
“They’re too greasy for recycling,” she said as she looked up and noticed Vic’s armful of detritus. “Just dump them in the trash.”
He did so, then moved to help with the drying up. Martha momentarily abandoned the grill to give him a ferociously tight, soapy hug.
“It’s so good to have you back, sweetheart,” she said, trying to hide the tear in her eye by fussily wiping off the suds she’d gotten on his shoulders and cheek. He grinned.
“It’s good to be back, I think. I haven’t really had a chance to stop yet and take it all in.”
“I’ve put fresh sheets on your bed,” Martha said, giving up her struggle with the suds. “I’m sorry if all this was a bit much. You’ve been travelling for days.”
“I loved it,” Vic reassured her, giving her another quick hug before checking his dad didn’t need help with the banner.
“I was thinking of giving it to little Charlie,” Dan said as he finished folding it away. “He’s obsessed with you. In fact, I think all the neighborhood kids are. The Willets twins have been demanding that their parents get them a pet chameleon since they heard you were coming back.”
“I feel like the most famous man in Fairbury,” Vic quipped. “Maybe I should hold a signing session in the town hall?”
“Don’t tell your mother or she’ll demand you do it,” Dan joked. “It’s about time this place was known for something more than country music and having the most fire outbreaks in the Midwest.”
Vic opened the yard shed for Dan to put the banner away before heading back inside and upstairs to his room. A part of him had been putting it off. He didn’t know how it would make him feel, being back among a childhood he was certain he’d outgrown. So little seemed to have changed, it had made him start to question just how much he himself had moved on.
The interior of the Borkowski home had always tended to oscillate between well-kept and overrun. Most of the time it was orderly and pristine – the kitchen bordered a living room hung with screed of family photos, including baby snaps of Vic that he had always insisted be taken down whenever his friends came over. Beside it was a hallway that led to the upstairs bedrooms and included a glass cabinet bearing Martha’s prized crockery collection. This was the sort of sight usually presented to visitors, but when Dan’s business was going through a period of expansion or a large sale, a clutter of boxed and wrapped electronic hardware soon filled every available space in the house.
Vic climbed the stairs to his room. The door had once been decorated with dinosaur stickers, but he’d angrily removed them about a year before heading to the Institute, caught up in a surge of teenage angst that wanted nothing to do with anything it perceived as childish. His name was still there though, printed off with help from his dad on his label maker when he’d been five. “Victor Borkowski.” Underneath it a second label, this one crude and hand drawn. “Anole.”
He grasped the door handle, hesitated, and turned it. Beyond the last of the day’s light was shafting in through the half-drawn curtains. All was still and silent. Vic stood in the doorway, taking it all in.
It felt like stepping back in time. On one side of his room was his single bed, freshly made up with checkered sheets. Next to it was a desk with his old laptop and a stack of dogeared books – The Greatest Actors of the Stage by Anthony Mezers, The Means Behind the Method by Stephanie Grail, 101 Ways to Take on a Role by Mark Deerfield. Across the room was his mirrored wardrobe, two bookshelves and a cabinet stand holding half a dozen trophies and medals, baseball and school drama prizes competing with one another for the top slot.
The curtains rippled gently in a light breeze blowing in through the open window. He stepped inside the room, carefully, as though entering some sacred space he dared not violate. Posters of actors and a huge chart following the development of dozens of species during the Jurassic period all gazed down upon him. Did his things still recognize him? Were they welcoming him home, or did they think he had abandoned them? Almost tentative, he walked over to the bed and sat down on it, slowly.
This was home. That’s what he told himself. He was just experiencing the effects of a momentary dislocation. It was natural, having been gone for years, that being back would feel strange. Part alien, part familiar, uncertain yet comforting. The emotions certainly weren’t complimentary, but he was sure they would subside. He just had to relax. The X-Men, the Purifiers, the Institute, it was all a world away now. Everything here was safe and undisturbed, a gateway to an unblemished past.
He plugged his phone in to charge by his desk and got up again, pacing over to the bookshelves to pick a volume at random. It was a picture book about different types of Triassic therapsids. Growing up he’d been obsessed with dinosaurs, convinced th
at he was their only remaining direct descendant. For a while he’d wanted to be a paleontologist, but that had fallen by the wayside somewhere around the time he’d discovered acting, baseball, boys, and the full extent of his own powers. He carried the book back to his bed and stretched out, leafing through pages that probably hadn’t been turned in over a decade.
About half an hour later he heard a buzz and glanced over at where his phone was still charging. It was Cipher. She’d texted him a couple of times since he’d left the Institute. He knew she was checking in on him, and he suspected Graymalkin was asking for regular updates from her. Jonas still hadn’t quite accepted the idea of phones, convinced that the Institute communicator given to all students was sufficient. As he liked to point out, he didn’t have anyone to talk to outside of the school anyway.
“Back home OK?” Cipher’s text read. “More Purifier crap on TV.”
He was about to unlock the screen and respond when he heard a creak on the stairs outside his door. He could tell his parents apart based on the sound of their approach – these footsteps, a slow and steady ascent rather than a busy, swift bustle, belonged to his dad. Sure enough, a moment later there was a knock at his half-open door. Dan stuck his head around it before Vic could answer, a habit he had never managed to get him out of.
“Room service,” Dan said with a smile, holding up one of the paper plates from the barbecue. It was heaped with more hot dogs and patties, slathered in mustard.
“This is all we’ve got left,” he went on as he entered. “And I thought you should have dibs ahead of McTeal’s dog. Angus is fat enough as it is.”
“I’m stuffed,” Vic said. His dad shrugged and sat on the chair by the desk. In the time Vic had been away he didn’t seem to have changed much – the dark hair around his temples was more thoroughly edged with silver now, and the lines on his forehead were a little deeper, but really he was as untouched as the place he called home. He was a tall, lean man with a serious expression that could give way in the most unexpected moments to warmth and humor. Those who didn’t know him might have had little time for a man whose most common attire was a short-sleeved shirt and a polyester tie, thinking him nothing more than a lifelong door-to-door salesman. Anyone with that opinion would find themselves badly mistaken. Dan Borkowski was a hard-working and conscientious father and husband, his judgments considered and his opinions honest.
First Team Page 4
