Categories > Cartoons > X-Men: Evolution > That Stupid School Project
“So, tomorrow, Kitty stalking,” Betsy said as the three stopped at the lamppost that signaled it was time to go their separate ways.
“Are y’sure this’ll work?” John wanted to know, “I haven’t a clue how t’stalk someone.”
“You’ll be fine. If you need some pointers we can ask Scott.” Betsy reassured him.
John, who had needed to find Jean once or twice, snorted as Betsy smiled with evil intent. Rogue was quiet, looking at the stars. Eventually the others were, too. The night air was warm, filled with the reminder of summer, and there was that freshly mown grass smell coming from the houses that lined the street. There were even a few fireflies out, lighting up the darkness in one final wish that the lazy season of summer would never end.
“Yah know,” Marie said after a few minutes of appreciative silence. “This is nahce. Ah can almost forget that there’s school tomorrow. Or that we’ve got that humongous test in History.”
“Talk about a mood shatterer.” Betsy said, suddenly remembering the fact that she was had probably missed dinner, and was going to receive a tongue lashing from MacTaggart.
Marie shrugged, “Ah guess Ah’d better go. See y’all tomorrow, near Kitty’s locker, rahght?”
“Sure, it’s C235. See you there before homeroom, luv.” Betsy answered, before she and John departed, walking down the right hand boulevard.
Marie waved them good night, even though she was pretty certain that they couldn’t see her. Then she turned around and headed left, toward her home. The street was quiet, mostly everyone was relaxing after dinner, or in the middle of that meal.
Occasionally Marie could see what was going on through the brightly lit windows. Families would be gathered around the TV set, watching a movie, or The Game, or the news. Others might have the father reading the news paper as the children did their homework, and Mom balancing the check books. All in all, the few glimpses inspired Norman Rockwell like images.
Marie took a right and walked down the next block. This one could be characterized by the lack of front yards, and the identical “houses” that lined the streets with geometric precision. Marie looked at the condos that lined the street and wondered if the person who wrote “The Stepford Wives” had ever lived in a condo.
After the endless stream of conformity ceased Marie was nearing the downtown of Bayville. Small shops appeared, and several cars roared past. Apartment buildings began to show themselves, rising like concrete and glass giants from the side of the road. Marie nodded or waved to the few doormen she knew, and turned off into a side street where homey brown stone houses lined the streets.
Even though there was no front yard, and the only trees were sickly twiggy things that had been planted in the side walk, Marie felt a wonderful sense of safety and home coming. She went to number thirteen, and used her house key to open the door. Inside it was dark, but that was only to be expected. Irene did not believe in waste, and leaving lights burning for someone who didn’t need lights was a waste.
Feeling along the wall Marie flipped the switch and the front hall was bathed in warm yellow light. Pictures lined the walls, some Marie had taken for her photo class last year, but most were ones that Irene’s friends had given her. Irene collected photos, and always demanded that if Marie was going to go anywhere new she would take pictures.
At first, when the girl had been younger, she had tried to describe what was in the photos. Irene didn’t say anything, but once Marie stopped trying to tell her what was in them the blind lady smiled at her, and gave Marie one of her rare compliments. Marie still didn’t understand why, but Irene did not like it when people tried to help her out because she was blind.
Moving from the warm hallway to the living room, the warm spicy smell of jambalaya assailed Marie from the kitchen. She could hear Irene clattering around, it sounded like she was moving dishes to the table. Faint strains of Mindy Smith floated in the background. Irene never turned music up as it would interfere with her ability to tell what was going on around her, but she did like having music to add atmosphere.
Marie waited until she was certain that Irene had put the plates down, and then she knocked loudly on the wall before saying, “Irene, Ah’m back. Should Ah set the table?”
Irene entered the living room from the kitchen, her cane carefully sweeping in front of her, even though she knew the layout of the house by heart. Her short brown hair only showed a hint of grey, and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.
“Don’t bother with the table, I just finished setting it. How was your day?”
“Ehh, same old, same old. School was a drag, and mah homework has mountaineers trahin’ tah scale it, but other then that Ah can’t complain.” Marie said, walking towards the kitchen.
“You’ll be starting on that after dinner I assume.” Irene’s voice held a note of warning in it.
“Of course. Yah know, there’s people standin’ outside the house salivatin’ ‘cause yah jambalaya smells so good.”
Marie hurried to the table and sat down looking at her bowl with anticipation, as Irene made her slow way around.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” the blind woman said dryly, “How’s your English project going?”
“Fahne, there’s a few cases of artistic difference, but other ’n that, it’s workin’ out.”
“If only your teacher could teach you not to end sentences with prepositions,” Irene sighed, “Or get you to stop talking like a Mississippi river rat. It’s working, by the way.” Irene stressed the ‘ing.’
Marie laughed, as her guardian sat down. They spent the rest of dinner eating and throwing quips across the table about burning mouths, the amount of spice needed for proper jambalaya, and how bad each other’s cooking was. At the end of supper, Irene turned the talk to the goings on at the Wolverine. Marie reported the out come of the Creed-Danvers pool games dutifully, as Irene listed them on her score sheet. As usual, when one factored in all of the past debts and money that they owed each other from previous games, the total came out to nil.
“I sometimes wonder if they rig those games so that the out come always ends up being equal on both sides,” Irene mused.
“Yah nevah know,” Marie added sagely, “Although yah mahght want tah get out yah Cassidy-Cassidy tally. They’re back in town again.”
Irene winced sympathetically, “Which one started it this time?”
“Ah got out b’fore they began a drunken brawl. But from the way they were talkin’ Ah’d say Tom’s goin’ tah be the one. His back looks pretty far up against the wall.”
Irene shook her head, “Poor Sean, if it wasn’t for that horrible drinking spree after Maeve died--,”
“Ah come down on Tom’s side,” Marie disagreed, “He’s raised Theresa, an’ Sean didn’t. That makes him her father, not Sean.”
“But Sean is her biological father. Blood is thicker than water.” Irene countered.
“No it isn’t. Ah love yah lahke a mother, an’ yah ain’t mahne. Yah ten times the woman she is!” Marie realized that she almost yelled the last statement, and returned her voice to a normal level. “Sorry, Ah got homework tah do.”
She walked out of the kitchen, and up to her room.
“Are y’sure this’ll work?” John wanted to know, “I haven’t a clue how t’stalk someone.”
“You’ll be fine. If you need some pointers we can ask Scott.” Betsy reassured him.
John, who had needed to find Jean once or twice, snorted as Betsy smiled with evil intent. Rogue was quiet, looking at the stars. Eventually the others were, too. The night air was warm, filled with the reminder of summer, and there was that freshly mown grass smell coming from the houses that lined the street. There were even a few fireflies out, lighting up the darkness in one final wish that the lazy season of summer would never end.
“Yah know,” Marie said after a few minutes of appreciative silence. “This is nahce. Ah can almost forget that there’s school tomorrow. Or that we’ve got that humongous test in History.”
“Talk about a mood shatterer.” Betsy said, suddenly remembering the fact that she was had probably missed dinner, and was going to receive a tongue lashing from MacTaggart.
Marie shrugged, “Ah guess Ah’d better go. See y’all tomorrow, near Kitty’s locker, rahght?”
“Sure, it’s C235. See you there before homeroom, luv.” Betsy answered, before she and John departed, walking down the right hand boulevard.
Marie waved them good night, even though she was pretty certain that they couldn’t see her. Then she turned around and headed left, toward her home. The street was quiet, mostly everyone was relaxing after dinner, or in the middle of that meal.
Occasionally Marie could see what was going on through the brightly lit windows. Families would be gathered around the TV set, watching a movie, or The Game, or the news. Others might have the father reading the news paper as the children did their homework, and Mom balancing the check books. All in all, the few glimpses inspired Norman Rockwell like images.
Marie took a right and walked down the next block. This one could be characterized by the lack of front yards, and the identical “houses” that lined the streets with geometric precision. Marie looked at the condos that lined the street and wondered if the person who wrote “The Stepford Wives” had ever lived in a condo.
After the endless stream of conformity ceased Marie was nearing the downtown of Bayville. Small shops appeared, and several cars roared past. Apartment buildings began to show themselves, rising like concrete and glass giants from the side of the road. Marie nodded or waved to the few doormen she knew, and turned off into a side street where homey brown stone houses lined the streets.
Even though there was no front yard, and the only trees were sickly twiggy things that had been planted in the side walk, Marie felt a wonderful sense of safety and home coming. She went to number thirteen, and used her house key to open the door. Inside it was dark, but that was only to be expected. Irene did not believe in waste, and leaving lights burning for someone who didn’t need lights was a waste.
Feeling along the wall Marie flipped the switch and the front hall was bathed in warm yellow light. Pictures lined the walls, some Marie had taken for her photo class last year, but most were ones that Irene’s friends had given her. Irene collected photos, and always demanded that if Marie was going to go anywhere new she would take pictures.
At first, when the girl had been younger, she had tried to describe what was in the photos. Irene didn’t say anything, but once Marie stopped trying to tell her what was in them the blind lady smiled at her, and gave Marie one of her rare compliments. Marie still didn’t understand why, but Irene did not like it when people tried to help her out because she was blind.
Moving from the warm hallway to the living room, the warm spicy smell of jambalaya assailed Marie from the kitchen. She could hear Irene clattering around, it sounded like she was moving dishes to the table. Faint strains of Mindy Smith floated in the background. Irene never turned music up as it would interfere with her ability to tell what was going on around her, but she did like having music to add atmosphere.
Marie waited until she was certain that Irene had put the plates down, and then she knocked loudly on the wall before saying, “Irene, Ah’m back. Should Ah set the table?”
Irene entered the living room from the kitchen, her cane carefully sweeping in front of her, even though she knew the layout of the house by heart. Her short brown hair only showed a hint of grey, and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.
“Don’t bother with the table, I just finished setting it. How was your day?”
“Ehh, same old, same old. School was a drag, and mah homework has mountaineers trahin’ tah scale it, but other then that Ah can’t complain.” Marie said, walking towards the kitchen.
“You’ll be starting on that after dinner I assume.” Irene’s voice held a note of warning in it.
“Of course. Yah know, there’s people standin’ outside the house salivatin’ ‘cause yah jambalaya smells so good.”
Marie hurried to the table and sat down looking at her bowl with anticipation, as Irene made her slow way around.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” the blind woman said dryly, “How’s your English project going?”
“Fahne, there’s a few cases of artistic difference, but other ’n that, it’s workin’ out.”
“If only your teacher could teach you not to end sentences with prepositions,” Irene sighed, “Or get you to stop talking like a Mississippi river rat. It’s working, by the way.” Irene stressed the ‘ing.’
Marie laughed, as her guardian sat down. They spent the rest of dinner eating and throwing quips across the table about burning mouths, the amount of spice needed for proper jambalaya, and how bad each other’s cooking was. At the end of supper, Irene turned the talk to the goings on at the Wolverine. Marie reported the out come of the Creed-Danvers pool games dutifully, as Irene listed them on her score sheet. As usual, when one factored in all of the past debts and money that they owed each other from previous games, the total came out to nil.
“I sometimes wonder if they rig those games so that the out come always ends up being equal on both sides,” Irene mused.
“Yah nevah know,” Marie added sagely, “Although yah mahght want tah get out yah Cassidy-Cassidy tally. They’re back in town again.”
Irene winced sympathetically, “Which one started it this time?”
“Ah got out b’fore they began a drunken brawl. But from the way they were talkin’ Ah’d say Tom’s goin’ tah be the one. His back looks pretty far up against the wall.”
Irene shook her head, “Poor Sean, if it wasn’t for that horrible drinking spree after Maeve died--,”
“Ah come down on Tom’s side,” Marie disagreed, “He’s raised Theresa, an’ Sean didn’t. That makes him her father, not Sean.”
“But Sean is her biological father. Blood is thicker than water.” Irene countered.
“No it isn’t. Ah love yah lahke a mother, an’ yah ain’t mahne. Yah ten times the woman she is!” Marie realized that she almost yelled the last statement, and returned her voice to a normal level. “Sorry, Ah got homework tah do.”
She walked out of the kitchen, and up to her room.
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