An Accidental Interception
of Fate: Berkeley Bound
Minisinoo

Scott had not been back to California since he'd left with three suitcases of clothes, three boxes of personal items, and a thick white bandage around his eyes.  At the time, he'd fully expected to spend the rest of his life sightless.  Two months later, he'd had his sight back --­ if reduced to dual tones of red and black ­-- but not his confidence.  He was a freak, a genetic aberration, and he'd wallowed in self-pity for twice as long as he'd suffered real blindness.  Since he'd had his needs met --­ food, shelter, clothing on his back --­ he'd had the luxury of self-involvement, and good looks and high school popularity had rendered him mildly spoiled.  All of his life, things had come easily to him.  It wasn't until the arrival of Francesco Placido, curled tight in fetal catatonia, that the truth of his situation had struck him forcefully, and he'd bounced back to his usually cheerful self almost overnight.  Perspective was a wonderful thing.  

Yet when his mother had asked ­-- even begged --­ him to come home for Christmas last year, he'd refused, driven by stubbornness, a lingering uncertainty as to his welcome, and a half-guilty gratitude to be free at last of what he considered (at eighteen) the embarrassment of his family.  Even before the San Diego Uni High School Prom incident, relations at home had been strained.  If he still chatted with his mother once a week by phone, his brother had yet to forgive him for mutating into something out of an episode of the X-Files, and he'd failed completely to turn out as his father had envisioned.  

In fact, his perceptions of family attitudes were only half-right.  Alex did resent him, but his father didn't.  Chris Summers suffered from a wrenching grief that he didn't know how to express beyond chilly silence.  He still carried in his wallet ­-- folded, faded and worn soft with years of handling --­ a special father's day card that Scott had made, at age five.  On it was a child's impressionistic picture of Chris standing beside his jet, and Scott himself in the pilot seat.  For years, Chris had dreamed of seeing that drawing come to life.  Now, it never would.  He had chalked up Scott's teen rebelliousness to the growing pains of all fledgling young men.  Chris himself had been far worse, and more inclined to real trouble, and when he'd become so frustrated that he'd wanted to strangle his son, he'd reminded himself that he'd never felt a need to search Scott's room, nor had to bail the boy out of jail.  Scott was basically a good boy.  But the manifestation of his mutant powers had ended any chance Scott had of becoming an air force pilot in his own turn.  Chris didn't blame Scott for that.  But it was some time before he stopped resenting God.  

In any case, there had been no reason for Scott to return to the Golden State until fall registration for his freshman year at Berkeley.  He'd forgotten how bright it was in the full California sun, and how much he'd missed that.  He felt like a glass filled to the brim with all the light.  "Until your body adjusts, you will have to find a way to release it," Xavier warned him.  The professor had come out with him, to settle him in for Welcome Week, just like the parents of other freshmen.  Except Xavier wasn't Scott's parent, and Scott was very conscious of that, very self-conscious, in fact, when the professor paid the whole of his semester bill with one check.  Scott had a scholarship, true, and received in-state tuition because he could claim a home address in Linda Vista, California ­-- but no one living at that address had wanted to see him at this university.  His father had hoped he'd choose the USAF Academy in Colorado Springs, and his mother had prayed for Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles.  

But Scott had applied in secret to Berkeley, and won a scholarship based on near-perfect SAT math scores.  When he'd finally admitted what he'd done to his parents ­-- and where he planned to go --­ his father had told him flatly that a scholarship was the only way he'd attend UC-Berkeley, because Chris Summers would die and go to hell before he paid a dime to 'that school.'  The Vietnam vet had too many foul memories of the violent Berkeley anti-war demonstrations, fire-bombed buildings, draft dodgers, "Free Huey" movement, and being spat on by those who claimed to support peace.  Now, he and Scott fought an old battle in an era when no one under twenty could remember the conflict that had split families and wounded a nation.  Scott had accused his father of living in the past and not caring what Scott himself wanted in the present, and Chris had accused Scott of going behind his back to apply to the one school in the entire state that Chris detested with real passion.  They hadn't spoken fifty words to each other since, and most of the words they had exchanged had been said on the night of Scott's mutant manifestation.  

They hadn't been the words many other young mutants had heard.  

Although he sometimes felt resentful of his father, he would never forget that when Christopher Summers had come to pick him up at the prom and found the police manhandling him, he had barked orders in the voice of a USAF officer for the men to get their hands off his son until and unless they could prove that Scott had broken the law.  Later, Chris had taken Scott's hand and led him to the car, then said, "It'll be all right," as he'd buckled Scott's seatbelt, because Scott was shaking too badly to do it himself.  His hands had been gentle on Scott's face, and the man who'd survived a Viet Cong POW war camp hadn't been afraid to run his thumbs over the thin lids covering his son's deadly eyes.  

So Chris carried a thirteen-year-old father's day card in his wallet, and Scott carried the memory of his father's hands on his face.  Both were a tender secret they couldn't quite admit to the other, and because they couldn't, the chasm remained between them.  They were stubborn in their pride.  

Now, Scott and Xavier left Sproul Hall --­ the administration building ­-- by the rear handicapped access, and Scott wheeled the professor around the long way before heading south towards Bancroft Avenue and Scott's new dorm.  Off to their right was a line of trees shading special interest tables ranging from BAMN for Affirmative Action to omnipresent Greek organizations, all leading up in the distance to the famous Sather Gate ­ focal point of so many protests and demonstrations during the 60s.  The professor found the whole experience amusing and nostalgic, new and oddly mournful, at once.  How many times had he seen a semester begin on a college campus?  But always as the professor, never the father, even if his parenthood here were merely by proxy.  Scott had still wormed his way into Xavier's heart, arriving in Westchester frightened and proud and desolate, certain he'd had no future, just as he'd had no sight.  Xavier had taught him to hope again, to spread his wings, and now he was leaving the nest.  He was hardly the first to attend college under Xavier's patronage, but he was the first to fly so far away.  

Scott's own thoughts were less coherent, edged with excitement, but also shame.  Although he had a scholarship here, he couldn't forget on whose charity he lived.  If Xavier thought of Scott Summers as the son he'd never had, Scott didn't yet think of Xavier as his father.  None of it was his money, and he was uncomfortably conscious of that.  

But at least out here in the bright California sun, no one looked twice at the guy in red shades.  

From campus, they headed two blocks south to the Unit Three dorms on Durant Avenue.  Norton Hall.  Warren drove the rental car they'd taken from the airport, where Warren's private jet waited; idly, Scott wondered how many other students had been ferried cross-country in first class style.  Along with a hundred others, he went through the process of checking in, then Warren helped him haul his belongings upstairs to the fourth floor and his double room.  He hesitated as he unlocked the door for the first time, but was relieved to find it empty.  He really wasn't ready yet to deal with a roommate; he needed time to establish his boundaries.  "Hey," Warren said, behind him, still standing in the hall.  "You okay?"

"Okay enough," Summers replied, then snorted.  "I can always run home again if I can't hack it."

Warren shook his head.  "You'll get over it.  Everybody is freaked the first week or two."

"Yeah, but 'everybody' can't level their entire building by blinking."  It was hissed out harsh and low.  

"And 'everybody' doesn't have sixteen-fucking-feet of wings, either, to strap down every goddamn morning.  It felt like shit for four years.  Don't whine, Summers."

Almost, Scott snapped back, but bit down on his retort.  Pity wasn't what he needed, and Warren had never been inclined to give it to him.  Instead, he smiled and raised his middle finger, and Warren boxed his ears ­-- lightly, so as not to displace the glasses.  The professor had arrived, in any case, from the elevator access, and the two boys finished carrying up Scott's things.  There really hadn't been that much, when it had come down to it.  Clothes in suitcases, his acoustic guitar, his favorite books in two boxes, a laptop that the professor had presented him with as a going-away present, a coffeemaker, a small fridge the professor had insisted on buying for him once they'd arrived in the town, and assorted miscellany that had been dumped haphazardly in a pair of laundry baskets.  Compared to his room at the mansion, the dorm felt horribly cramped, but the lightwood furniture and the wide window made it less claustrophobic.  Scott claimed a bed, a dresser and the desk under the window (first come, first serve), and set up a framed picture on the latter.  He'd taken it just the week before at Westchester ­-- everyone crowded onto the mansion stairwell, the professor in his chair at the bottom.  But it was just an excuse to have a picture of Jean on display without explaining to all and sundry that she wasn't really his girlfriend.  

And that, to Scott Summers, was the most wrenching thing about leaving New York.  He needed a picture of her where he could see it, but she didn't need one of him.  

Of course, what he didn't know was that Jean had tacked up in her locker at Columbia's teaching hospital a picture of the two of them feeding squirrels on the rear mansion grounds, side-by-side and shoulders touching.  And she had no qualms about explaining who the boy was in the picture.  Everyone agreed that her adopted little brother was quite good looking.  A few also noted that she talked about him rather a lot, for an adopted brother, but politely refrained from commenting on the fact.  

When everything was in the room, the professor sent Warren off to find a suitable restaurant for dinner and then had Scott sit down on his new bed.  "Getting rid of him?" Scott asked.  

Xavier smiled faintly.  "You might say that."

"I don't think he was fooled."

"I wasn't trying to fool him."

Silence fell, and stretched, and tore slightly.  "Being afraid is normal, you realize," Xavier said.  

"I know."

"Why are you upset?"

Scott stared down at his hands.  Even with the blinds shut, the room seemed preternaturally bright, compared to dim New York winter days and the dark wood halls of Xavier's mansion.  He could feel it even now, buzzing in his head, with the first press of a headache behind his brows.  Reaching beneath his glasses, he rubbed his eyes carefully.  "Can't you read my mind?" he asked at last.  

"I could.  I'd rather not.  I'd rather you told me."

Scott opened his mouth, then shut it.  How to begin, without sounding inappreciative?  "I wouldn't be here without you.  You have . . . no idea . . . how grateful I am.  Well, maybe you do."   He paused, feeling foolish.  "I don't like being a burden."  

"You're not."  

"I am.  You don't have to do this."  

"Exactly.  I don't have to do it.  I want to do it.  You are no burden to me, Scott.  You never were."  

Turning his face sideways, Scott blinked rapidly and was relieved that, when his eyes were open, he couldn't cry.  The beams destroyed everything in their path, including tears.  

"Now," the professor said, "the part no one ever wants to talk about --­ money."  He watched the boy flinch visibly, and wished there was some way to make this easier.  He knew better than to give Scott unlimited access, or the boy wouldn't touch a thing, counting pennies like a miser --­ the very opposite of what most parents feared.  "Your housing, meal plan, and tuition have been taken care of.  Your books are to go on this."  He handed over a credit card.  "As are any clothing needs.  This" --­ he handed over an ATM card ­-- "is for your personal use . . . however you wish to spend it.  We'll start with two hundred dollars a month.  Incidentals."  Scott was gaping and trying not to.  That includes food outside your meal plan, books for entertainment, movies, and videogames."   That last, Xavier said with raised eyebrows, teasing just a little to make the gift easier to swallow.  

Blushing, Scott reached forward to accept the card.  "I won't use it all," he said, as if taking a solemn vow.  

"Perhaps not, perhaps so.  In any case, two hundred dollars will be deposited in the account once a month.  I won't be checking to see what the balance is."  Leaning back in his chair, he winked.  "Going to college without spending money isn't much fun."  The boy had flushed a deep red almost as bright as his glasses.  

"I'll pay it back," he whispered.  

"No, you won't," Xavier snapped.  "I have no children.  I never will.  Allow me to spend my money how and where I see fit."  

"Why are you doing this?"  Scott raised his burning face.  "I've never really understood that ­-- why you do this?   Why you took us all in?"

"Because I can.  And because I want to."  

"I owe you so much --­ "

"You owe me nothing at all.  A gift that expects repayment is not a gift.  All I ask is this: pass it on.  Help others, as you have been helped.  If you do that, then you will have repaid me in the best way possible, son."  

Scott nodded.  "I can do that."  

"I know you can."  

It wasn't much later that Warren returned with a short list of premier San Francisco restaurants and they took Scott to dinner, fed him well, then left him to settle into his new home in privacy.  He spent a long time that night, staring at the picture on his desk.  God, he missed them ­-- all of them, not just Jean.  In the past year, he'd grown used to communal living.  The dorm room was too quiet.  Outside the door it was loud enough, with people coming and going and calling out to each other, exchanging names, interests, places of origin --­ building the foundations of potential future friendships.  He might have gone out, too.  Even two years ago, he would have.  Popular, good-looking, and easy-going, he'd been confident of making friends because he always had.  But that had been before May of 1996, before his senior prom ­-- before rose-quartz glasses.  What would the people outside the door think, if they knew what his eyes could do?  Would they flee him?  Would they condemn him as the freak he'd once thought himself?  He didn't know.  So he locked his door, curled up on his bed, took some aspirin for the sun-induced ache in his skull, and tried to pretend that he enjoyed his vaunted isolation.  
 
 
 

His dorm was co-ed in all respects.  He'd known the floor was co-ed, but his first night there, he'd spent ten minutes looking for the men's room and had finally given up and asked, then been pointed towards a door.  Finding another guy at the sinks (urinals or no), he'd assumed he was in the right place.  But the next morning, as he exited his shower stall only to find a girl entering the one beside his, he dropped shampoo, comb, and towel in shock, right there on the wet floor.  Amused, she winked at him as she shut her stall.  "Co-ed everything" drifted out to him, along with her laughter.  

"Jesus H. Christ," he muttered, "Welcome to Berkeley," and wondered why none of the Housing-packet literature had mentioned 'co-ed bathrooms' --­ or had he just missed that part?  In any case, the event caused him to rethink his liberality, as he found it rather disconcerting to be sharing a john with members of the opposite sex with whom he wasn't also sharing a bed.  

Not that sharing a bed with a girl was likely any time in the near future.  He hadn't thought much about that since high school.  Or rather, he'd thought about it quite a lot, but as thinking about it tended to sink him in a miasma of self-pity, he tried to avoid dwelling on it.  Instead, he collected a campus map, a town map, his wallet, and set out on his own by foot.  He'd slept too late to join the Welcome Week tour schedule, even if he'd wanted to, but he preferred to find his way around on his own.  He started with the blocks around his dorm, then branched out onto campus, spending most of the day in exploration, from the Hearst theater and the stadium on the east, past the Memorial Glade with its rich greenery, towards the campanile and the MLK student union.  He enjoyed the opportunity to wander, and crisscrossed the campus via concrete sidewalks in the shadow of pine trees and mix-and-match university buildings, some of them being renovated by construction workers with loud radios.  Students zipped to and fro on bicycles, and he narrowly avoided being hit once or twice.  He spent a few hours wandering the huge library, dwarfed by its vaulted ceilings, then spent a few hours more in the student store, and the union arcade.  The whole time, no one spoke to him unless the situation demanded it.  He was just another freshman.  

By sunset, he had a better lay of the campus, but he was also beginning to feel the effects of a surplus of sunlight, and made his way up a path towards 'The Big C' --­ a steep clearing that overlooked the San Francisco Bay.  He didn't go all the way to the drop off, veering from the path into the woody concealment of trees.  No one was around, and at first, he tried opening his eyes towards the forest floor, but it just gauged up great chunks of loam and dirt.  Not a bright idea.  Reluctantly, but at a loss, he turned his face up to let the beams shoot skyward in a few short, intense bursts.  Although he could not shut off his power completely, he could (somewhat) control the strength of it.  If anyone noticed, perhaps they would take it for a peculiar skylight or a scientific experiment.  He only dared five blasts, but felt better, and made his way back to the main path, then to campus, and then back to his dorm.  Still no sign of his roommate ­-- but he didn't much mind.  He grabbed a solitary meal in the dining hall, reading a book while he ate at a table in the corner.  At first, he found the white noise of people coming and going to be distracting, but within half an hour, he'd remembered the essential art of tuning it all out and was completely absorbed by the meteorological descriptions of John Barnes' SF thriller, Mother of Storms.  

Maybe Ororo needed a nickname, he thought, grinning to himself.  But when his supper was over, he trudged back to Norton Hall and his room.  Alone.  

The next several days passed in much the same fashion.  The only people he had cause to speak to outside of random cashiers, university staff, and the residence hall assistant (a mumbled excuse about why he wasn't getting involved in Welcome Week activities), were at the end of a phone line over two thousand miles away.  In New York.  

"You gotta get out more, Gamma-Gaze," was Warren's advice.  "Quit holing up in your room."  

"I'm not holing up.  I get out everyday."  

"I mean get out and do something with other people, idiot.  You won't meet anybody playing the hermit."  

And from Hank: "Your roommate still has not arrived?"

"No, and it's Thursday!  I'm starting to wonder if he's going to."  As per Berkeley's Housing policies, Scott had been sent his roommate's name, address and phone number months ago, and had meant to contact Elijah Haight, but had never quite gotten around to it.  So now, he knew nothing about the other boy that might explain the delay.  

"Hmm.  Well.  Haven't you introduced yourself to your dorm neighbors?"

"Uh ­-- not exactly.  I mean, I've met the RA, and all."  

A sigh on the other end of the phone line.  "You should talk to your neighbors, Scott --­ an exchange of names and phone numbers is hardly out of order."  

Frank had given similar advice, although the intricacies of the American college experience were beyond him.  "What do you mean you have not met anyone?  Where are the girls?  You are in California, cretino!  Adossi il cafonismo come il mantello!"  You wear stupidity like a cloak.  Like Warren, Frank had never been inclined to pity him, and Scott had been forced to laugh --­ but at least Frank wasn't being evasive or sounding ominous, which was a relief.  

Of all the people at the mansion, though, only Jean hadn't talked to Scott since he'd left the East Coast --­ almost as if she were avoiding him.  
 
 
 

"E-mail is a wonderful thing."  

"What?"  Jean Grey looked up from where she sat at her desk in the lab, marking up an article for later reference.  It wasn't a particularly engaging article, but scientists weren't paid for their witty narrative and compelling imagery.  In her more catty moments, she penned numbers in the lower left-hand corners, one to ten on a 'dull' scale.  This particular article rated a seven.  Now, though, she set aside stress-related inhibitors on the immune system to regard Hank McCoy where he stood in front of her, big arms crossed, seeming two parts amused to one part annoyed.  

"E-mail," he reiterated.  "To California.  It's easy, it's fast, and it's cheap."  

She frowned, wanting to say that she didn't know what he was talking about but of course she did.  "Henry," she began, aiming for patience and winding up with a testy, "I know all about e-mail.  I even know Scott's e-mail address.  But college is a new experience for him.  He should make new friends."  She turned back to her article.  "I wouldn't be doing him any favors by writing to him.  Besides, he's got so many things to see and do, I doubt he thinks of me much."  

Pulling over a spare chair, Hank sat down on it and clasped oversized hands between his knees.  "I wasn't worried about Scott, actually.  I was worried about you."

"Me?"

"Yes.  Don't pretend to be surprised.  You're never going to contend for an Oscar, Red."  Reaching out, he tugged at a lock of her hair.  "You miss him."  

"Well, yeah.  I guess."  She frowned, uncertain how to reply.  She'd not expected to miss so badly an eighteen-year-old bundle of testosterone-driven energy.  "But he needs . . . he needs to do this on his own, Hank.  He doesn't need a big sister looking over his shoulder."  

"Maybe he does."  

Pulling off her glasses, she lowered her chin to regard him with evident annoyance, her question apparent from her expression.  He kept his eyes on his hands for a moment, then gave her a sly grin.  "I seem to recall a lot of pep talks delivered to you, your first year of med school at Columbia."  

And she smiled back, remembering too.  Hank was the only reason she'd survived that year.  

"Yes, he may indeed have much to see and do," Hank continued.  "But that can be overwhelming, not just exciting.  And you know Scott --­ he'll die and go to hell before he admits to the rest of us that he has uncertainties.  He won't tell even Warren.  Maybe especially not Warren.  Warren made it through Harvard.  Scott doesn't want to worry the professor --­ or me.  And he thinks he has to be a model for Frank and Ro.  But you . . . for whatever reason, he talks to you."  

Henry watched her perk up at that.  Jean needed to be needed.  "Ya think?" she asked.  

"Yeah, I think."  And he grinned.  What he didn't tell her was that he had a couple of letters in his inbox from Scott, asking rather wistfully if Henry knew why Jean hadn't written to or called him, and was she angry with him for some reason?  Now, Henry McCoy pushed himself up and fingered a pen in his pocket.  "Drop him a note.  He could probably use a pep talk or two."  

Her smile was brilliant.  "Thanks, Hank."  

"Any time." 
 
 
 
 

Having finalized his fall schedule, Scott had decided to pick up his textbooks early, and also to splurge ten bucks on a shiny dark U Cal coffee mug with a gold bear on the side.  It was, perhaps, a very freshman thing to do, but seeing the glasses and cups and mugs as he'd passed the display on the way to the textbook center, he'd paused to look.  

He'd wanted to go to Berkeley since he'd been fifteen and captivated in American history class by the stories of the 1960s.  The name of Berkeley had come up again and again, and the mythos of it all had attracted him, even as it had repelled his father.  Not everything about Berkeley in the 60s and 70s had been admirable, certainly, but at the core of it?  There was a tradition of civil liberties and freedom and expansion of the mind that, to the young Scott Summers, had embodied the best that was American, and there was no-where else he'd wanted to go so very much.  Now, here he was, and however overwhelming it might feel, there was a magic of possibility at the base of it that all his uncertainties and doubts couldn't dislodge.  He'd been accepted to Berkeley.  

So when he'd seen the mugs and cups and glasses, he'd stopped to consider, his eye drawn to one of the dark ones with a gold foil bear on the side.  (He couldn't see the gold, but he could tell it was foil and knew the school colors were blue and yellow.)  Doubting the professor would object to a little school pride, he'd picked it up.  Now, he stood in line with a stack of eleven textbooks and the mug, and the lines, even the Saturday before classes began, were horrid.  He'd already been waiting fifteen minutes and was barely halfway to the checkout.  All around him, equally bored students flipped through their books, chatted with each other, chatted on ubiquitous cell phones, or stared at the ceiling.  When his own cell phone went off, he assumed for a moment that it was someone else's, then, when it dawned on him it was his, he almost dropped everything he was carrying, fishing it out of his back pocket.  Getting it open by the fifth ring, he barked, "Hello?" into the little mic, hoping the caller hadn't given up.  

"Scott?  Is this Scott Summers?"

Zero gravity drop-shock spun his stomach around and this time, he did fumble his textbooks --­ but not the mug.  The crash of cardboard and paper drew the eyes of other students, and the pretty Asian girl in line behind him huffed in disgust as he bent over, trying to gather the books and balance the phone on his shoulder.  "Ah --­ Jean?"

"Yeah, it's Jean.  How are you?"

"Um, in line, at the moment.  I'm in the bookstore."  He was still trying to gather books.  

"I called at a bad time?"

"Maybe a little.  But that's okay."  Now that he'd heard from her finally, he wasn't about to chase her off.  He'd have been willing to talk to Jean Grey while balancing buck naked on one foot in a pond full of alligators.  

But she said, "How about if I call you back in half an hour?"

"No, really --­ it's okay."  He tried picking up the books again, one-handed, without letting go of the phone or the mug . . . and promptly dropped them all once more.  She could hear that on the other end, of course.  

"Scott, don't be silly."  She was laughing a little.  "I'll call you back, boy-o.  Pick up whatever you just dropped."   And the line went dead.  Sighing, he shut the phone and picked up his books, awaiting his turn at the register and forcing himself not to check his watch every few minutes.  

Two-and-a-half hours later, he was no longer checking.  Sitting outside on the steps of lower Sproul plaza, he ate a cold bagel and fended off the advances of an importunate squirrel, glancing now and then at the phone on top of the bag beside him.  Depression tugged down his shoulders, and made him sigh without even realizing it.  He glowered behind his glasses at every couple who passed him on the wide expanse of red brick, but he wasn't sure who he was madder at --­ Jean, for failing to keep her promise, or himself, for the fact that it mattered so much.  If only he hadn't been too graceless to juggle textbooks, coffee mug, and a phone in the first place.  

He wasn't sure how long he sat there on the steps, slumped down, elbows on his knees, lost in the labyrinth deconstruction of his own 'if onlys,' when a stray flit of conversation behind him caught his ear.  ". . .  a UFO up on the Big C."  

He glanced around as two girls came down the steps.  One wore a t-shirt advertising the Quetzal Café in San Francisco, and the other sported a frighteningly brief hot-pink tank top . . . and he really didn't think it a good idea to examine that top too closely.  "A UFO?" said Hot Pink.  

"Yeah.  They say there're flashing red lights in the evening, up on the C."  

"Oh, come on!  Who says that's a UFO?   It's probably just a bunch of Stanford guys playing a goddamn joke!"

"But it's not near the C itself.  It's off in the forest-y part.  Jeremy said he's seen it with his own eyes.  Red beams shooting off up at the sky. . . "

And they passed out of range.  

Scott blinked.  Red beams shot at the sky?  Up at the Big C?  

Surely not, he thought.  

Surely.  Not.  

But what else could it be?  Oh, shit, he muttered sotto-voce.  Grabbing his bag of books and his phone, he hopped up to chase the girls across the plaza, hoping he might hear more.  But by the time he caught up to them --­ not too close to alert them ­-- they were discussing what to wear to a semester kick-off frat party.  Giving up, he headed off down a different sidewalk, angling back in the general direction of his dorm.  

A UFO?  He'd been classified with little green men from Mars?  

Maybe it had nothing at all to do with him.  Maybe this Jeremy simply had an overactive imagination.  Or it really was some guys from Stanford with a new twist on defacing the school monument.  Red lights instead of red paint.  

But he couldn't convince himself of that.  'Red beams' sounded entirely too familiar --­ and what was he going to do about that?  He hadn't intended to start the rumor mill spinning and the last thing he needed was to have curious students sneaking around trying to catch sight of the 'UFO.'  Alarm fluttered in his belly.  

The breeep!  of his cell phone interrupted and --­ once again --­ he almost dropped his bag of books fishing out the phone to answer it.  "Hello?"

"Scott!  Finally!  I'm so sorry.  I'm on rotations today, and by the time I got free again . . . well, anyway --­ how are you?"

And just like that, the sound of her voice banished all his depression and irritation.  "You called back!"

"Of course I did.  I said I would."  A pause, then she added, "You were afraid I'd forgotten, weren't you?"

"Maybe a little."  Well, in truth, he'd been quite sure she'd forgotten, but wasn't about to tell her that.  

"I didn't forget about you, Scott.  I just got busy.  Now, I want to hear all about Berkeley.  Tell me everything!  I'm so jealous that you get all the sun and the bay."

And standing there in the middle of a sidewalk under an oak tree, he started laughing . . . just because she'd called him back.  She hadn't forgotten him.  

"What's so funny?" she asked.  

"Nothing.  It's just . . . 'everything's a pretty tall order!"

"Well, how about half of everything?"

Still laughing a little, he set his bag down at his feet and wiped his lower face with a hand.  "I'll do my best.  But I just heard the weirdest thing --­ it seems I'm a UFO"

"What?"

"I'm a UFO!"  He glanced around, but no one was nearby to overhear.  Nonetheless, to be safe, he left the sidewalk to sit under the tree, book bag between his knees, and related to Jean the rumor he'd overheard.  

Jean was not amused, however.  "Scott, you've got to be careful!"

"I'm trying to be!  But man --­ what am I supposed to do?"  Then, more softly, "There's not a private yard around here, miles from everything else, y'know?"

Silence reigned on the other end while Jean pondered that.  "You've got your visor, right?"

"Yeah."  

"Then instead of shooting at the sky or ground, try some precision blasting.  It'll take longer to release the excess energy, but it's less likely to start any rumors."

"Precision blasting at what, Jean?  Stray raccoons?"

"I don't know!  Carve up fallen branches or something!"

He sighed.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to snap.  And I really wasn't trying to start a rumor."  

"It's okay.  And I know.  You won't have to worry about this forever.  Your body will adjust in another week or two.  In the meantime, do a little forest ranger work instead of the unsolicited laser show.  Now, tell me about the rest of your week."  

So he did, lying on the grass and looking up at the sky through the leafy branches.  She listened with interest, asked him questions, and scolded him a little, the same as the others had, for keeping to himself.  "I know it's not easy to start over, but you've got to make an effort.  Try eating dinner without a book in your hands.  If you're always in your room, or gone, or reading at supper, people will assume you don't want to be bothered and you'll never meet anyone.  Which of course, begs the question.  Do you want to meet anyone?"

That caught him by surprise and he frowned.  "I guess."  

"You guess?  Doesn't sound any too convincing, Scott."  

"I do want to meet people.  But --­ I don't know.  How close can I get to anyone here?  I mean really?  I can't tell them the truth!"

"Why not?"

"You were the one who was so worried, earlier, about rumors!"

"I was worried about rumors.  Not about the truth.  You don't want to alarm people, but you might find that you can trust a few with the truth.  If you give them a chance."  

"What if they, you know, run me out or something?"

"Scott, you're at Berkeley.  Home of liberalism.  I thought that was why you wanted to go there in the first place?"

"Yeah, but not because I'm a mutant.  I've wanted to come here for a long time."  

"I know.  But now it works in your favor.  Don't overlook that, or underestimate it."  She paused, then added, "Look, I have to go.  I've got an M&M --­ mortality and morbidity --­ session in half an hour.  I'll call you Monday night to see how your first day of classes went, okay?"

"All right."  

"Send me e-mail."  

"I will."  And feeling buoyed, he closed the phone to head back to his dorm, step light and barely noticing how fast he covered the distance.  Arriving at his building, he took the stairs up to his floor for exercise, only to find six people marching in and out of his dorm room like a line of ants, carrying burdens that seemed outsized for their body mass.  

His roommate had finally arrived, it seemed.  And seeing the amount of stuff flung about the dorm room's floor, Scott wondered if he planned to move in his entire family with him, too.  

A big man in his mid-fifties paused to stick out a beefy hand while balancing a box of books with the other.  "Hi!  You must be Scott Summers.  Good to meet you.  I'm EJ's dad, Jeremiah Haight."  Bemused, Scott shook the hand, which was almost as big as Hank's, and without any mutant cause.  "EJ!" the man roared.  "Your roommate's back!"  And then in a more normal voice that still somehow seemed to fill the entire space of the hall, "That there's my wife, Violet.  And that's JaLisa with her, and Clarice is coming up from the elevator, and I think Me'Shell's still back down at the U-Haul."  Then --­ bellowing again ­-- "EJ!"

"I'm right here, Dad!" said a voice behind Scott.  "You don't need to yell."  

And turning, Scott Summers got his first good look at EJ Haight.  Years later, drunk on green St. Patrick's Day beer, he and EJ would share with one another exactly what their initial impressions had been, that day.  To EJ, Scott had seemed all fresh-faced Americana with high patrician cheekbones, hair an artfully stylish mess, and sunglasses worn inside like a Hollywood escapee with pretensions to fame.  To Scott, EJ had looked like an extra from a Spike Lee film, complete with shaved head, baggy pants two sizes too big, and a baseball cap worn backwards.  All he'd needed was a hooded sweatshirt and ten gold chains (he'd had wooden beads instead).

Perhaps not the most auspicious of initial impressions.

Scott recovered first to offer the other boy a hand in his own turn.  "Hey, I'm Scott.  Welcome to Berkeley.  And it's EJ ­ not Elijah?  I was kinda wondering where you were this past week.  You need any more help carrying stuff up?"  As if their poor room could hold anything else.  

EJ took the hand.  "I think we're 'bout done, but thanks.  And nobody calls me Elijah but my mom when I'm in trouble."   He grinned.  "Good to meet you finally.  Looks like a killer laptop you got on the desk in there, man.  It fast enough to play any good video games?"

Smiling back, Scott said, "Graduation present.  And yeah, it is."  

"Cool."  

EJ's father had backed away a little to give the boys space, and his wife had come over to join him, slipping an arm around his ample middle.  Violet Haight was almost as tall as Jeremiah.  "We were planning to take EJ out to dinner tonight.  Would you like to come with us?"

Blushing, Scott shook his head.  "No, I couldn't, it's a family --­ "

"Nonsense," Violet told him.  "A 'family' dinner usually involves at least three sibling quarrels between EJ and the girls, and I figure if you come along, maybe they'll be on their best behavior."  

"I doubt it," EJ said, half-laughing and grabbing one of the girls --­ Scott had already forgotten who was who ­-- to knuckle her on the head.  Squeaking in protest, she slapped at him.  

"Bully!"

Still blushing, Scott tried again, "I really don't think --­ "

"I'd give it up, man," EJ advised, letting his sister go.  "Mama don't take 'no' for an answer."  

"He's right," the sister said, to be backed up by nods from the second and third girls, who, having dropped off their burdens, had come over to see who their brother would be living with for the next year.  They were all, Scott noted, rather exceptionally pretty, especially the one EJ had been harassing, and two of the three were rather exceptionally tall, as well.  Thus ringed about by a noose of Haights, he shrugged agreement.  

"Okay, sure."  

And that easily, his adoption into the family was settled, one white pigeon amid a flock of laughing crows.  Jeremiah herded them back down to the parking lot where the four siblings squabbled over who had to ride in the back of the van, and Scott found himself in the front with EJ's father.  "You know the town by now, I guess?" the man asked.  "You get to navigate."  

So Scott directed Jeremiah Haight to a local Denny's, and they all tumbled out of the van like puppies from a spilled basket.  Passing the van's rear, Scott noticed a "Clergy" sticker with a white cross on the back glass.  He'd somehow missed that, getting in.  "Are you a priest?" he asked, stopping dead in his tracks.  

"Pastor," the man replied.  "Baptists don't call their ministers priests.  They let us marry, too."  And he winked.  

But the attempt at humor barely registered on Scott, who --­ dismayed ­-- continued to blink at the sticker.  His new roommate was a preacher's kid?  Would Scott have to suffer a semester's worth of crusading to save his immortal soul?  How fast could he get a new roommate?  

"Dad's the senior pastor at Bethany Baptist Church in L.A.," EJ said, dropping back to stand by Scott.  "That's why I was late getting up here, to college.  We've been doing a summer youth camp for city kids.  I played the piano and coached ball.  It just finished yesterday."  

Turning, Scott glanced at him.  "You play piano?"  Maybe that housing survey had been worth something after all.  

"Yep.  You?"

"I play bass."  

"Awesome!"  EJ swatted Scott's shoulder in friendly fashion.  "You brought it with you, man?"

"No, but I brought a guitar.  I left the bass back in New York.  I wasn't sure how it'd go over, y'know --­ amplification in the dorm."  

"Hmm.  Yeah.  I can dig that.  So what kind of music you play?  What kind of guitar you got?"

"With me?  Just a Takemine.  But back in New York, I have a Steinberger and an Eden amp.  Mostly, I play rock.  I like Rush, the Police --­ that kind of thing."  

"Oh, man ­-- Neil Pert is awesome!  He writes the best lyrics.  You like Live?  How about Toad the Wet Sprocket?  U2?  Living Color?"

"Yeah, all of them," Scott said, a bit surprised, and a smile stole slowly over his mouth.  Maybe things would be all right, in the end.  EJ was grinning, too, in the same kind of relief.  Scott hadn't been the only one concerned.  

"By a Steinberger," EJ asked, "you mean one of them little black basses without a headstock or body?" He made quick gestures trying to illustrate, and Scott was beginning to think that if someone tied his hands together behind his back, he'd be as mute as a fish.  

"Yeah, that's the one.  It's made all of graphite."  

"I heard about those!  You're supposed to be able to run over them with a freakin' Mack truck and it won't hurt them!"

"It's true."   A pause, then, "I don't suppose you could bring your piano with you?"

"Nah, but I got three different keyboards.  I'll show you when we get back ­-- "

"Hey, boys!" the Reverend Haight called from the door to Denny's.  "You coming in to eat, or you going to talk instruments in the parking lot all night?"

So EJ and Scott went in, but spent most of the meal with heads together, bonding over bands and gear.  EJ's three sisters cheerfully ignored them, but Jeremiah shared a private smile with his wife.  It seemed that music was a universal language after all. 

Go on to Chapter 4, Salt and Pepper