Work Text:
5:00 AM
Ooooo baby!
Here I am
Signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours
A low light getting brighter, Stevie’s voice, and the bubble-bubble-pop of the coffee pot ushered Ororo from sleep to wakefulness. She stretched, listening to the song’s volume increase, aware that her ridiculously expensive alarm clock was also incrementally increasing in intensity, smelling dark roast from the next room over. The summer-weight down comforter would be appropriate just a few more evenings, as the days careened towards the shortest in the year. The conclusion of the country’s curious custom of Day Light Savings would soon bring darker mornings and dormancy for the sizable forest of plants in Ororo’s rooms on the top floor of the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning.
Rolling to her bare feet, Ororo extracted herself from bed, yawning and blinking sleepily at the softly lit sky outside. The sun was barely up. Reaching to her bedside shelf, Ororo shut off the sunlight alarm but let the music, now at full volume and proclaiming the listener to be the sunshine of my life, propel her to the source of the delicious scent. She entered her kitchen, an expanse of gleaming metal and candy red cabinets on the opposite side of her flat, and opened the fridge to extract milk. Of the many iterations of her late mentor Charles Xavier’s schools and institutes for higher learning and retreats and what-have-yous, this recent version, named for her (also late) colleague and friend Jean Grey, offered the most comfortable of living quarters, helped by the fact that the building was comparatively new and Ororo’s old flame Logan (also recently, achingly late) had the space designed with her in mind.
Wandering from the kitchen, Ororo snagged an elephant-shaped watering can and followed the line of plants situated in clusters around the windows. Not one window wore a shade, so the pinking sky sang to her heart, nearly equal to Stevie’s soulful grunting living just enough, just enough for the city, as she admired the view and her plants’ enthusiastic response. They seemed more buoyant than usual, leaves standing and shining like maybe they had something to say. Ororo tested the moisture level of the soil with a chopstick, watering some plants and skipping others. Usually, the plants who spent warmer weather on her small balcony grew the best, and certainly they were doing quite well, as far as Ororo could see, but these indoor plants weren’t too shabby in comparison.
“Hmm!” Ororo remarked, taking a sip of her coffee and smiling upon them. She couldn’t help feeling proud.
A small chime from her phone alerted her that it was time to shower and dress, to step into the rest of her day, which would likely be more complicated than the easy morning routine she’d created for herself. Ororo allowed herself one more scan of her leafy children before turning her mind to the other young ones under her care. On the way to her ensuite, she tapped the alarm, turning off the radio. She didn’t need to hear the singer; having heard this song a hundred times over, her mind completed the phrase, isn’t she lovely, made from love?
8:00 AM
Departing the leafy sanctuary of her rooms, Ororo was pleased to see not a single teacher, student, or member of Jean Grey School’s community awaiting her. She’d shed her morning robe for a smart but not overly formal, yellow slouch top and dark trousers, snug at the waist and loose around the ankle. Since assuming the role of school head, she endeavored to carefully walk the line between professional and approachable. Some days and situations required that she lean into her seniority as a direct mentee of Professor X and peer to some of the most powerful mutants on the continent, in the world. Other days necessitated a softer touch, required decorum, empathy, and social smarts. It wasn’t always easy to look the part, but today’s outfit boosted her confidence —yellow being the color of calm, the sharp front pleat of her pants signifying confidence and strength.
Ororo’s office she purposely nestled at the heart of the school building. Similar to Prof X, she preferred being easily found and to be able to hear school goings-on from her perch. Students age five and older had vibrant and sometimes disruptive voices that carried distances, whereas the lower murmur of teachers and those living on campus with no particular role soothed her, confirming that all was well within the school’s brick walls. Although the school had elevators and ramps, as was appropriate for accessibility, Ororo took the stairs. She arrived at the large wooden door, shut only when she was not within, and peeled off an assortment of bright sticky notes, most of which offered reminders to call or email this person or that, save for one which contained only a smiley face and a squiggle with an arrow pointing up –possibly a tail.
Smiling down at the note, she toed open the door, nudged a volcanic rock door stop in place, and padded across the thick rug to her work station. In place of a commanding desk, Ororo had organized her office using a series of small tables, stools, and chairs. Similar to her private rooms, a bank of windows across the rear wall held a wide variety of plants. Today, they looked glorious, healthy in the early morning sun. Unlike her rooms, these plants were largely cared for by students and groundskeepers, whoever held the assignment that week or month. Although Jean Grey School employed a janitorial and grounds team, like any other school, public, or civic space, Ororo reorganized roles in such a way that the whole Jean Grey School community shared responsibility for the space. Thus, the care team, educators, school administration, and students interacted often and no one had a social upper-hand. Ororo felt rather proud of this change in process and policy, and clearly her plants benefitted as well.
One plant in particular, a variegated pothos, seemed intent on taking over the standing desk near the window. Ororo brushed several handing strands aside in order to set down her folder and open the laptop that resided on the desktop. Booting up the computer, she positioned her phone nearby, checked that the walkie-talkie sitting in its charger on a windowsill was fully charged, attached the stickies to the desk surface, and got to work.
11:30 AM
Ororo stretched. Mid-morning, she’d migrated from the standing desk to one of the seated positions in her office. Also near the windows and within good view of the doors, she stole frequent brain breaks to gaze out at students tripping sleepily down the hall, their shoes muffled by a thick rug. When not breaking, Ororo emailed parents concerned about their young, responded to inquiries from prospective families, and DM’ed back and forth with the school’s small development staff about potential funders and grant opportunities. In Charles’s day, his personal, ancestral wealth footed the bill for the education of the first and second class of homo superior youngsters finding their way in a society that feared and envied them. Logan’s reprise of the effort was not without resources, but even an endowed institution such as the Jean Grey school needed consider its future.
Speaking of, Ororo’s future productivity required a boost. Standing, she put her laptop to sleep and took up her favorite mug which, oddly, had gotten tangled in pothos stems. Ororo pocketed her phone, clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt, and stepped into the hall, half-shutting her office door behind her. This time of day younger students and older, the latter of which followed a block schedule, were thoroughly ensconced in their classrooms elsewhere in the building. The Headmaster office shared a floor, but not a wall, with an assortment of age groups but it’s best feature, according to Ororo, was a nearby kitchenette to which she could sojourn, stretching her legs and listening to the life of the school, while obtaining a coffee refill.
As she stepped into the small but well-equipped alcove, the walkie-talkie buzzed at her hip. Ororo paused in her tracks, lifting it to her mouth, “Headmaster Munroe.”
“Ororo?” came Hank’s baritone. “I have need of your wisdom around a . . . delicate matter. I would drop by your office, if I may?”
“You may,” said Ororo. “I’m not there. Where are you? I’m at the kitchenette on two.”
“Excellent,” said Hank. “I’m on three. I’ll swing by.”
Ororo re-clipped the walkie and listened to the noise of other staff hailing one another, as well as one student who’s pilfered a walkie-talkie and was not at all in their assigned location. The naughtiness brought a small smile to her face.
“Ororo?” said Hank, indeed swinging around the corner. Always one for natty dress, today he sported a low-cut, sleeveless argyle vest and miners cap pulled over his swept-back hair.
“What can I do for you, Henry?” Ororo asked over her shoulder as she lifted the coffee pot and swirled the contents to see if steam would rise.
“It appears we have a situation with one of the teachers,” he responded.
“Are you at liberty to say whom?”
“Well, first maybe I should explain what I observed?”
Deciding the coffee was warm enough for consumption, Ororo poured herself a mug and then lifted the pot in Hank’s direction. “Will you have some?”
Perhaps it was impolite to exhibit lack of concern but, since taking up her role, Ororo had developed intuition around when to react, and when to keep her peace, following her teams’ leads. Hank, she knew, tended towards worry and over-reaction.
“Thank you,” Hank said, and Ororo produced a mug from the dish rack, preparing his coffee the way she’d seen he preferred.
“You are too kind,” Hank said, receiving the coffee. “Thirty minutes ago, I stopped into the 1st floor teacher’s lounge to retrieve this hat, which I’d forgotten the previous day, and I stumbled upon a teacher. As you’re aware, upper school students are in their second period classes, so teachers should be present. I was concerned, so I asked the teacher if they needed assistance.”
“And?” Ororo asked.
“And they didn’t quite respond. You can imagine my concern increased.”
“I can,” agreed Ororo. “Then what did you do?”
“I suggested they depart for their classroom, but I . . . sensed intense discomfort. I considered traveling to their assigned room myself, but instead decided to consult with you.”
Ororo did not roll her eyes. It was a near thing. Two decades at mutant-specific schools and Hank still remained skittish about taking the lead in issues involving students or teachers, despite being Vice Headmaster and Curriculum Director. Blanking her face and trying for neutrality, she said, “Henry, you’re the experienced one in this situation, can you not simply—”
“It’s Gentle,” Hank blurted. “He doesn’t respond to me; we don’t have that sort of relationship yet.”
Nezhno Abidemi: yes, a newly arrived teacher; yes from the Mother Continent; no, not a person with whom Ororo held much in common but, as two East Africans at Jean Grey School, she supposed she couldn’t blame Hank for erring on the side of cultural sensitivity. Or, at least, race (as constructed by the West) sensitivity.
“Okay,” said Storm, holding her coffee aloft as she departed the kitchenette with Hank trailing, wringing his big, furry hands. “Please make sure Nezhno arrived back in his classroom. I will see what else I can do.”
4:00 PM
It was possible she’d been unfair. Conversely, what would Hank gain if Ororo went around solving his problems? As for Nezhno, as long as he returned to his classroom and didn’t leave the students on their own for too-too long . . . and there went the walkie-talkie. At nearly the same moment her phone chortled, and then Ororo was off. From noon to two, she put out fire after fire. Distraught grandparents threatening to rush to the school and retrieve an equally distraught lower school student; two teens caught kissing beneath the gym bleachers and three more interrupted mid-mini-explosion out in the sports field; a funder concerned about a dubious cable news inquiry into the school’s finances and a supposed damning secret; a window on the top floor that mysteriously blew out, and some plumbing issues in a basement level restroom that would likely trace back to students attempting to flush tampons, despite posted signs instructing otherwise and several female-identifying teachers’ campaign to convert menstruating students to silicone cups. It was truly a lot.
Ororo had forgotten about Hank’s dilemma. It wasn’t until she strode into the cafeteria for an early dinner that open loops from earlier reasserted themselves. As she inspected the hot table, then the salad options, soups and stews, Asian and Pan-African flavors, and Southern American comfort foods, details from her earlier conversation about the rouge teacher drifted through her mind. It would be a problem if he’d refused to return to his classroom, being away for a long spell wasn’t acceptable. On the other hand, Jean Grey School did not have a Zero Tolerance policy for students, and Ororo’s approach to managing her team was largely hands-off and tolerant, but also direct and concise. Not having heard back from Hank about how things had gone with Nezhno, Ororo’s attention turned elsewhere. Now, she supposed, she should turn it back.
The cafeteria was quiet. Most of the young people were engaged in after-school activities, or late-in-the-day classes like The Art of Fighting Without Fighting, previously taught by Logan and recently resurrected by Bobby. Ororo spotted him and a gaggle of middle-school students running around on the lawn outside the cafeteria’s tall windows. Mostly, the lesson plan seemed devoted to kids joyfully chasing Bobby on foot and then slipping and sliding around on the great sheets of ice he produced. The grounds staff often had choice words for his impact on the landscaping but, far as Ororo was concerned, lawns were a large and silly waste of space, and there were enough students around who had facility with green growing things who, in their spare time, seemed happy to revitalize it. In fact, Ororo gazed around the large space, noting how exceptionally well the indoor plants fared. It warmed her heart.
“Ororo!” hearing her name, she turned to see an old friend waving at her from a spot near the exits onto the lawn. Kurt’s yellow eyes gleamed and glinted, curving into a smile as she approached, carrying her dinner.
“Join me?” He offered.
Ororo nodded and set down her stew and rolls. Kurt’s table was one of the smaller ones, intimate and made festive with a small but robust sprig of flowers in a jam jar vase.
“You look a bit troubled,” Kurt remarked, tilting his head.
“Do I?” Ororo asked, settling and lifting a spoon full of soup to blow on. No, still much too hot. She should request a bit of ice from Bobby. “Mostly, I was contemplating an earlier situation.”
“With students, staff, or parents?”
“Staff,” she admitted, paused to take a mouthful of stew. “Do you have any rapport with Nezhno?”
“The new teacher?” Kurt tilted his head in the opposite direction, resembling to Ororo, a particularly devilish puppy. “From Wakanda?”
“The very one. Henry was having some trouble with him earlier and sought my advice.”
“Isn’t Hank Vice Headmaster?”
“Yes,” she said wryly. “I believe I made a similar point.”
“Well. I would be happy to speak with Nezhno, if you’d like one thing —at least— off your plate.”
It was reflex to refuse. Caretaking the teachers was not a responsibility that non-working members at the school should take on. As well Kurt, in particular, was recovering from a near-death experience and Ororo knew much of his day was taken up with talk and physical therapies. Still, he’d always been a kind, good-natured soul, charming and very good with people of all ages, despite his shocking looks.
“Actually, could you check in with Henry, help out if he needs a sounding board or some other support?”
“Your wish is my command, die gnädige Frau,” Kurt cheekily saluted her and, before Ororo could stop him, BAMFed straight out of the cafeteria.
“So much for company during dinner,” Ororo thought, but then she noticed how bright and beautiful the flowers her table were, and permitted herself to be taken by their ornate charm.
5:00 PM
This was not the first time that Ororo envied Kurt his ability to instantly teleport from place to place. She might overlook the lingering scent of sulfur, which sometimes overpowered her sensitive nose, to access her friend’s seeming effortless transport. And this from a wind-rider! Satisfied with her meal, Ororo bussed her table, placing her tray on the conveyer. The early evening called to her, so she decided to permit herself a short stroll before a tad bit more work to cap the day.
Slipping out to the green lawn outside the cafeteria, she shut her eyes briefly and let the mild breeze carry the sulfur-scent from her nostrils. She circumvented ice-flattened grass, which may or may not recover without assistance, and headed for a paved walkway leading to the sports fields. Students, some still in the day’s uniform and others in casual dress, called greetings as they headed in for their final meal of the day, if one didn’t count the cookies and fruit and microwavable popcorn the kitchen team left out for late-night snackers.
The small Peace Garden off the path, maintained by Rachel with the help of lower schoolers, caught Ororo’s attention. The sun had yet to set, and since she’d made it through dinner without being interrupted by Kurt returning, or Hank, or anyone else, the idea of spending some time alone appealed. She followed the heart-shaped stone pavers, passed beneath a wooded arbor that seemed over-grown, and settled beside a waterfall made from overturned clay pots. The soft rush of water soothed her, and Ororo stole another moment to shut her eyes and breathe. Opening them slowly, she drew a compact tablet from her pocket and opened the timer app. Ten minutes to work through a few, complicated emails. Then Ororo would shut down productivity and deal with tomorrow’s problems tomorrow.
“Famous last words,” Ororo said aloud, twenty minutes later as she gazed into her rooms.
No way would she fit inside now. Earlier, her sprawling indoor forest had seemed happy and shiny, the picture of health. Now, with the surface area of most of the furniture, every lamp and fixture, every window was completely obscured, by plants plants plants plants. Ororo poked her head past the door jamb and looked up: pothos. Left and right, front and back: elephant ears, jade, spider, fiddle leaf fig, snake plant leaves wide and waxy enough for a 1st grader to slide down. The air plants, even, in their tiny, magnetized orbs on the refrigerator, has expanded to something that looked more like alien creatures that would challenge the X-Men in a space frontier. Ororo felt tickling where her hand rested on the door knob and spotted delicate, tentative tendrils doing their best to secure this last, unclaimed frontier.
She pulled her hand away, “Goddess!”
Which was when Kurt chose to reappear. BAMF! Now he stood before her, his back to the door, and Ororo retreated out of the cloud of his teleportation. Kurt opened his mouth to speak and then had the presence of mind to glance backward over his shoulder.
“Hmm,” he said. “Too heavy on the fertilizer?”
Ororo shrugged, retreating to the opposite wall of the hallway. Keeping an eye on her room, in case she needed to slam the door shut or apply electricity / wind / rain to the problem within, if it behaved with more intention than seemed advisable, Ororo said to her friend, “Have you an update?”
Kurt propped his chin on his fist, eyes still fixed on the plants plants plants plants. He responded, “I do. Should we first address this new problem? Then, again, I think they might be related.”
“Say more.”
“I don’t know how much Hank explained what the problem was with, or whom, for Nezhno?”
“Nothing,” Storm sighed. “Henry said only that Nezhno was hiding from his classroom in the teacher’s lounge.”
Kurt nodded and poked idly at the doorknob ivy with his pointed tail. “Yes. Well, I consulted Hank and then I spoke with Nezhno. The classroom isn’t a problem so much as one student, who herself is not a problem. Simply, a normal teenage girl with teenage hormones, who has developed a crush on her teacher.”
“Ah,” Ororo thought. To Kurt, she said, “Her teacher whose only solution to the problem was to remove himself?”
“Appears that way. Nezhno is a very sweet guy, doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feeling. Fortunate for him, I have experience with problems such as this one. I am certain I can help redirect.”
“What does this have to do with my plants?”
‘Not just your plants,” Kurt said.
“Ah,” this time Ororo spoke it aloud. Her memory led her through the day: watering her plants at breakfast, feeling proud of her green thumb in her office, marveling at the vibrancy of cut flowers on her dinner table. “This student —could she possible be named Marisol?”
Kurt nodded, “Isn’t love grand?”
Well, they could address this issue tonight —drag a teacher drained from a long day at school into the most awkward of conversations with a teenager who, after demanding to be returned to her farmer parents, stayed a year, and then re-enrolled herself at the Jean Grey School because she wanted to understand and improve her control over her gifts, be a better farmer and a skilled, enterprising land-manager. Ororo and Marisol butted heads during the child’s first stint at the school, but now that Marisol had taken initiative, they got on quite well. Ororo did not wish to embarrass her to within an inch of her life right this moment, to say nothing of poor Nezhno, who had likely never considered encountering an antagonist-less problem like this one.
Okay, back to the person before her. “Henry is where?”
“Oh. You know. Smoking his pipe, reading a massive and hideously boring book, in his lab.”
“Retrieve him, please,” Ororo said as an idea bloomed. “And bring your favorite drinks, as well snacks if you like. Meet me here in ten minutes.”
Although his expression turned curious, Kurt asked no questions before teleporting away.
6:30 PM
So we grooved and said: "Check it out!"
This is the Pata Pata...
So we grooved and said: "Check it out!"
This is the Pata Pata...
Ororo set out several empty tumblers and an ice bucket with recently uncorked bottle of sparkling wine because, as the kids would exclaim: why not? Here she was, crowded out of her apartment by audaciously overgrown house plants, nestled on a picnic blanket with whatever she needed for the evening borrowed from linen storage and still in her work outfit. No, actually —she reached up to remove her hoop earrings because nothing said camping injury like being inappropriately dressed for roughing-it on the roof.
Tugging a woven blanket more snugly around her shoulder, Ororo lifted her glass and took a sip. Of course, she’d never allow students to behave like this, but she’d survived worse situations than a night on the roof, listening to the beautiful, venerable Miriam Makeba sing in Xhosa from the tiny speakers of her phone, looking across the campus at night fall, over the treetops of the surrounding forest. Bubbles sliding down her throat comforted her as much as the recently sunk sun. Despite her current predicament, things were mostly as they should be, and Ororo felt content. Now all she needed was a little company in her non-misery.
Every Friday and Saturday Night
It’s Pata Pata time!
The dance keeps going all night long
Til’ the morning sun begins to shine!
“Should we expect ‘til morning’ is long we’ll be out here?” came a voice from an unexpected direction.
Ororo craned her neck to peer over the edge of the roof at her balcony, on which two men stood. One blinked glowing, yellow eyes, the other lifted a bottle of liquor and several stout glasses.
“I feel underprepared,” He continued. “As our friend here indicated only that I bring a drink and vessels in which to partake and share.”
Ororo tilted her head and held back a smile, choosing to dryly state, “You both have fur. And I’m happy to share my blankets.”
“She has a point,” Kurt said. “We’ll be right up, Lady Blue. I didn’t want to overly scent the air, so I brought us here.”
“Ever the polite one,” Hank remarked and then, rudely, scooped up his friend and scaled the wall in short order.
“This is very nice,” Kurt said as they settled together on the thick blankets she’d set over the asphalt shingles.
“Thank you,” Ororo dipped her head. “I created it after discovering myself . . . unceremoniously ejected from my rooms.”
“Those plants can be a real beast,” Hank said, then scratched the back of his head. “I feel I owe you an apology. Perhaps if I’d been more . . . or if I had gotten ahead of things . . . or behave more sympathetically towards Nezhno.”
Ororo shook her head and raised her glass, “It is of no great consequence, my friend. This is a place of education is it not? We are all learning.”
Copying her movement, Kurt and Hank raised two glasses. They clinked together.
“To learning,” Hank said.
“To our collected wisdom, or lack thereof,” Kurt added.
“To new, and possibly deeply embarrassing lessons,” Ororo said. “With old friends.”
And three together, as one, laughed.
FIN