To all the young heroines who helped bring my interpretation of TJ to life – Laura, Mary, Carrie and Grace; Amy, Jo, Beth and Meg; Anne (with an "E"), Scout, Lyra, Sal, Winnie and Calpurnia.

And for Rebekah, of course. I wish much love to my little bat.

Xoxo,

Maria

"So that's basically my screenplay," I say.

I am perched on the seat of my Uncle Logan's Harley Davidson motorcycle, chattering on at his cowboy boots. His top half is under the Jeep Cherokee; he's changing the oil. I'm supposed to be helping him. (At least that's the excuse I gave to Papa to get out of German class thirty minutes early this afternoon. My grades are perfect in German. I already exempt from the midterm exams earlier this school year. And I will probably exempt from the finals in May. On that note, why am I taking German anyway? I've been speaking it fluently since I learned to talk.)

Uncle Logan, splattered in oil, rolls out from under the Jeep. He sets aside the nasty, dirty used oil filter and takes a swig from his bottle of beer. He shoots me that trademark expression of his that seems half-annoyed, half-exasperated. But I know he's been listening to every word I said.

"It needs more kissin'," he grunts after another long pull of cold beer.

"Uck! No!" I screech, covering my face with my hands.

I peek out at him through my six fingers to see if he's teasing me. It's hard to tell sometimes with Uncle Logan. He looks pretty serious right now as he chugs more beer.

I know what kind of movies he likes – those cheesy Clint Eastwood's with lots and lots of shooting guns, death and dramatic poses. We'll binge-watch Eastwood flicks sometimes – Uncle Logan and me – on lazy Sunday afternoons. I know Mama doesn't like that. But she can't really say anything about it without sounding like the World's Biggest Hypocrite because she obsessively watches those CSI shows full of graphic murders and gore. People on Eastwood movies "die" by clutching their chest and keeling over, groaning.

"Why would anyone want to watch a movie with kissing?" I demand.

OK. I know some people – like Aunt Jeanie and Aunt Jubilee – do, but I don't understand why. Just like I don't understand why some people like tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwiches.

"It's gross!" I add – on both counts, tomato sandwiches and kissing. "imo."

"imo?" Logan asks, quirking a bushy eyebrow at me.

"In my opinion," I say in a "duh" tone, though, come to think of it Logan, in his flannel jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, does not seem like the kind of guy who would understand that abbreviation. But then maybe he might …

Logan has raised a lot of teenagers and he seems to stay a step ahead of all their tricks and trends. For example, just the other day, he and Uncle Scott were walking across the quad to oversee school pictures in the gymnasium when Addison Parker and Daisy Daye came prissing by in the opposite direction. Daisy Daye, that sop, looked straight at Logan, grinned at Addison, and murmured in a catty voice aimed at Addison, but loud enough for Logan to hear – "swipe left!"

Logan turned to a nonplussed Uncle Scott and explained calmly: "Girl's talkin' 'bout that Tinder. Saw a broad on it looked just like her Momma and I swiped right, if yah get what I mean."

Well, Daisy turned bright red at that, let me tell you! Uncle Logan doesn't think much of sops, just like me. It's one of the reasons we're such great pals. That, and he's my Papa's best friend, of course.

Logan grunts at the new oil filter in its tidy, white cylinder sitting innocently on the toolbox beside me like it doesn't realize its horrible grimy fate. I hand it to his free hand, the one not holding the beer. Logan isn't much of a talker. He only seems to speak when he has to. Meanwhile, there are those (my Aunt Kitty, for one) who think I'm a bit of a chatterbox. We're still pals, though. Me and Logan. Me and Kitty, not so much so.

He rolls back under the Jeep on the dolly and his voice drifts out from under the carriage. "You say that now, but someday …?" He gives a gruff chuckle. "Yer ol' man was the same way. There was a time when the elf seemed to think all girls were good for was playing practical jokes," he says, referring to my Papa. Logan's called Papa "elf" as far back as I can remember, just like he calls me "little elf" sometimes. And it's easy to see why. "Then he hit puberty and that all changed!"

I frown. I'd been hearing my whole life what a Casanova Papa was when he was younger. He had, like, a hundred girlfriends once – a long time before I came along. Papa isn't exactly a stick-in-the-mud like Uncle Scott and he's certainly not Aunt Kitty. But he's Principal Wagner, the headmaster of our School. It's hard to imagine him as anything else, especially a dashing rake who left a trail of broken hearts behind him. As far as I know Papa hadn't even had a proper date since I was born. It might sound strange to say (or even a little selfish), but I secretly like it this way. I am the only woman in Papa's life and that's the way I want it to be.

Logan pushes himself back out. I toss him a clean rag and he wipes his blackened work-roughened hands on it. He jerks his shaggy head at the garage door. "Final period," he says.

Like me, Logan can hear the school bell before it even rings. His ears are extraordinary, just like mine. He's got ears like a fox. But mine are even sharper. I've got the ears of a bat.

"Might wanna put some shoes on, punkin," Logan adds with a smirk. "Yer Aunt Kitty might have somethin' to say about that."

I roll my eyes. Yuk! I hate shoes. Summer or winter, I cannot stand to wear them. And, really, who can blame me? My feet just aren't made for shoes unless it's those creepy river-shoes that have toes. And those things are made for people with five toes on each foot and I've got three toes each. But I've never missed those extra four. My feet can do twice as much as those of most people. My feet are wide, flat and dark-blue, just like the rest of me. I have cool, amazing toenails that are really more like claws. "Talons," my little cousin Vicky calls them. Vicky has talons too, but they are exactly like the talons of an owl, long and curving as if they were made to catch and crush prey. They would be scary-looking if they didn't belong to Vicky who is, well, Vicky – a goofy little girl with a head of pale hair as fluffy as a baby chick.

My talons are made for climbing. They can hook onto any chink on the smoothest wall. To reinforce the fact that I'm a born climber, both my toes and fingertips have little pads on them like suction-cups. This lets me scale walls and ceilings like a gecko.

My feet can also sense tiny vibrations rippling through the ground that are too soft for most other people to detect. Um, can you say early-warning detection system? But my feet are also super tough and mostly resistant to heat or cold. Tell me it wouldn't be a crime to coop up these wonders inside shoes?

Most of the other teachers at School let my shoeless feet slide despite the dress code, but not Aunt Kitty AKA Professor Pryde. (Did I mention I can't call her Aunt Kitty to her face even though I've always called all the other teachers Auntie and Uncle with no problem, even Uncle Scott?) She's so stringent and by-the-book it makes me want to barf.

"OK. OK, I'll get going," I mutter to Uncle Logan, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. Although seventh period of the School day is study hall and what class am I lagging behind in and should study harder for? None, that's what. I'll spend the whole boring hour-and-a-half tutoring students like poor Harold Nguyen. Even though he's fifteen and I turn twelve in June.

"Now," I add with a sigh when Uncle Logan quirks another eyebrow at me.

If Aunt Kitty – sorry, Professor Pryde – catches me teleporting to class so I can have a few more precious moments of "goofing off" (even though I'm working on my screenplay which is VERY IMPORTANT) and sans shoes I'm dead meat.

"And what about the shoes, little elf?" Logan calls after me as I flip off his motorcycle and trudge in the direction of the quad.

I shoot him a narrow-eyed expression. "Don't bet on it, bub!"

Logan rumbles a chuckle and shakes his greying head as he finishes off the rest of his beer.

###

OK, I don't teleport to study hall – Well, except the last few hundred yards. I got distracted … or I should say Vicky got distracted. Uncle Warren was giving her a diving lesson right over the quad. The open sky above the quad, which was usually crowded with various students hurrying and hollering, was probably not the best practice air-space for Victoria Worthington IV, who has the attention span of an ant, but the eyes of an eagle. Seriously, the kid can spot a bug in the grass from almost a half-mile up in the air which is where she was hovering with her dad, Uncle Warren, when I came scurrying across the quad's open square of green grass five minutes before the sixth-period dismissal bell rang.

It is a gorgeous, bright spring day, "perfect for flying" as Uncle Warren would say. Uncle Warren looks like a drop-dead gorgeous human man with chin-length blond hair and eyes like the April sky. He also has an eighteen-foot-wingspan. There's a reason he's called "Angel." Warren's wings can maneuver in about any weather. Vicky, who inherited her papa's beautiful snow-white wings (except hers are splotched with tan feathers), but not one bit of his grace and finesse, needs good clear skies to practice flying. She doesn't need distractions, though maybe that was the point of this particular lesson – Warren was trying to teach her to focus on a specific target, which is kind of like asking a hungry dog to ignore a tasty ham sandwich.

Here's the thing about Vicky – she's as gawky and goofy as they come, but she flies in complete silence. And I don't mean people with regular, boring ears can't hear her coming. Even my super-sonic, beautiful bat ears that can detect a dog farting a mile away can't hear Vicky on a sneak attack.

And here's the thing about me – I live in a world of sound. Well, I guess everyone does who isn't deaf. But my sense of hearing is eight times more powerful than a "normal" human being's. I can hear everything within almost a mile. Everything, no matter the volume or pitch. No matter how close or how far.

Y'know when someone whispers something under their breath? Well, I can hear everything hidden under breaths. I can hear the whisperer's heartbeat. And I can pinpoint the sound of cockroach feet scrambling over the floor under the feet of the whisperer. And if that cockroach farts, well, I can hear that too.

You might not know this, but cockroaches fart – a lot.

Sometimes having such a keen sense of hearing is awesome, like when I was three years old and I overhead Aunt Lori whisper where the Hanukah presents were hidden in my Mama's house. (Like anyone who knows me for any amount of time, Aunt Lori knows now not to even whisper secrets within a mile of me.) People who don't know me very well are fair game. Like Daisy Daye when she whispered to Terran Fatima that one of her boobs was bigger than the other. Of course, I'd never repeat this because A.) I'm not that kind of person (read Daisy Daye). And B.) I've heard it from all my aunties and my Mama that having mismatched boobs is not just common, but the norm for most women.

But I could tell that Daisy Daye was very self-conscious about it for whatever reason (probably because the media makes women look absolutely Barbie doll symmetrical). And it was nice to have something – no matter how secret – over on Daisy Daye, who is the worst.

Sometimes my super sensitive ears make things really, really bad. They aren't something I can turn off, like a radio. When I was two years old, Mama and Papa took me to a crowded beer festival. (Papa is a craft beer enthusiast. He even brews his own brand. Don't ask.) There were jugglers, acrobats, hawkers and an oomp-pah! Polka band complete with tuba and accordion. The other kids there were laughing and clapping along with the fun. I was screaming my head off. It was like all those different sounds were trying to pull my eardrums in a dozen different directions. It was horrible. That's when Mama and Papa first realized how sensitive my ears were.

That's also around the time Uncle Logan and I started to hang out together. Logan has super-senses too, but it's his sense of smell that's mega-powerful. Uncle Logan's nose is better than a bloodhound's. There are only a few things he cannot sniff out during our walks in the woods together, but even he couldn't sense the baby fawn I'd found three days ago in a thicket where its mother had hidden it. But I could hear its heartbeat.

Like I said, it has its perks, though sometimes it feels more like a curse than a gift.

Uncle Logan's nose is famous, but his ears are sensitive too. He gets how painful a sound that would be considered loud to regular ears is unbearable for me. And how miserable a dozen different sounds are when they're grouped together in one area. One reason Uncle Logan avoids crowds. Me too. It's the reason Papa and most of the teachers at School give me about fifteen minutes ahead of the other students to get to class, so my ears are (pretty much) shielded from the noise and bustle of the student body moving around as a whole.

But today I'm running late because Vicky spotted me from above and decided to dive bomb me. The kid is good. Let me tell you, when sound rules every minute of your life someone who moves without it is freaky as hell. Warren is teaching Vicky to dive. She's a natural, but damn she doesn't know much about landing. She pulls up just in time not to kill me, but her attack sends us sprawling through the mud.

"Vicky – dammit, er, darnit!" I snarl, spitting out freshly-dug sod.

I'm pissed because (among several reasons) she's made me muddy my Panama City Lifeguard on Duty hoodie Aunt Lori bought for me when she and Uncle Alex got engaged at the beach last summer. It's my favorite thing; I practically live in it even though the weather's getting warmer. But I don't dare cuss because I know Uncle Warren is hovering around nearby. He's not as strict about cussing (or not, I guess) as, say, Auntie Marie. (In fact, he's one of the grownups I've heard drop a "damn" or a "hell" occasionally.) But I know he wouldn't approve of me cussing around his daughter's sweet little innocent ears.

"You didn't even hear me coming, TJ!" Vicky sings. Her fluffy blond hair is sticking out in all directions, making her look like a wide-eyed baby owl. Right now, she's crowing like an overgrown rooster. "And you have the best ears around – better than a bat – and I got yoooou!" she adds with an annoying chortle.

"I couldn't hear you because your wings make no sound – like zero," I mumble. Yes, I can hear a tiger-moth hatching out of its cocoon. But I've got to have sound for my super ears to work their magic.

I'm trapped under her butt-cheek. Vicky is just four years old and I'm almost twelve. So why don't you just push her off? you might be asking. Well, Vicky is like a bird. I don't mean she's a picky eater. (On the contrary, the girl has a voracious appetite and a roaring metabolism. She can eat her weight in chicken wings.) But, like Uncle Warren, her bones are hollow like a bird's, making her a very light flyer. She's literally light as a feather until she traps something – or someone – in her viselike grip. Then she's suddenly like a 300-pound sumo wrestler sitting on you. Nobody can figure it out, not even Aunt Jeanie. It's one of the many things that make Vicky such a weird kid.

"Quick, what are the names of three flightless birds!" Vicky shrills, her round face a picture of elation and smugness at having pinned me. I know better than to struggle. Vicky is going through this irritating phase where you have to answer a trivia question for her to let you up.

"Rhea, Ostrich and Emu," I growl. "And there's gonna be another if you don't let me up!"

Vicky giggles victoriously and rolls off of me. Older kids are starting to swarm around us in earnest now, scurrying and hurrying to seventh period. The bell rang while Vicky was rubbing my face in the mud. I feel like rubbing her nose in it just to teach her a lesson (not much else it would do; she's as muddy as me at this point). At that moment, however, Uncle Warren swoops down and lands on a dime. I've watched him fly since I was a baby, but I'm still in awe at how deftly he can maneuver, especially with a wingspan as wide as that.

"Oooh, TJ! I'm so sorry," he says, herding Vicky away from me in that coaxing and apologetic manner Warren's made his trademark as a dad. (Dad-mark?)

Uncle Warren's a single dad. Not single like my papa. He and Mama are divorced. Warren's wife, Aunt Betsy, died when Vicky was four months old. I was seven when it happened and I remember Aunt Betsy as a stunningly beautiful woman. She was a model and a psychic, like Aunt Jeanie. She and Uncle Warren were madly in love, like something from a fairy tale. I know how badly her dying messed him up – because it's all the grownups ever talk about and it's not like I can't overhear everything they're saying even when they say it in that whispered way grownups do when they talk about subjects "unsuitable for little ears." To my uncles' and aunties' credit, most of them just state the facts around me which I appreciate.

Uncle Warren's "put so much of his grief" for Aunt Betsy into raising their daughter, my aunties and uncles say in that pitying way grownups often do, usually with a lot of sympathetic head-shaking. Like a lot of single dads (and fortunately, not like mine) Warren tends to overthink, overprotect and overworry when it comes to Vicky – especially when she's into mischief, which is all the damn time.

Right now, as he continues to apologize profusely, I know Warren isn't just sorry I'm a mess. (Vicky's the closest I've got to a kid sister and I've been putting up with her rowdy behavior since she was born.) But he knows as well as anyone that, because I haven't beat the bell, that the tide of students rushing over the quad is going to be hell on my sensitive ears. Even with just a couple dozen students pushing, shoving and chattering around me, it feels like several rock concerts amped way up inside my head. I grit my teeth.

"I can fly you to class …" Warren offers, bless him. But I notice his blue eyes straying towards Vicky who is sneaking off to stalk a grasshopper. His hands are pretty full – or his wings, as the case may be.

"I got this, Uncle War," I say as cheerfully as I can, struggling not to grimace. "If only I could …?"

Warren smiles at me. "Don't worry. I won't tell," he adds with a wink before flying off after his precocious offspring who is woofing down that grasshopper like a starving baby bird. Yep. Mark that off as another quirk for little Victoria. She's been eating insects since she could crawl – or flap. As soon as she could scurry around on all fours, her little wings were pumping, causing her to hover over the ground like a beetle. What a weird kid.

I flash two fingers at Uncle Warren in a "peace out" sign. I close my eyes. I concentrate. I try to block out all the sounds pressing in around me. Then I wink out in a flash of blue smoke.

###

OK. Teleportation is not easy. Like, not at all. Papa makes it look easy. So easy, but hell it ain't. For me, winking out is the easy bit. I've been able to do it since I was a few months old. (That makes for some interesting baby stories Mama and Papa tell about their little elf, let me tell you.) When I wink out, I usually keep my eyes closed tight. If I don't, all I can see is a pinkish blur whirling around me, pressing in on my eyeballs. You'd think it would be loud as hell, but it isn't really. There's just a gentle swooshing noise like wind blowing around me.

Winking in is the hard part. Not because it's hard to do. What's hard is knowing exactly where you're going and how to wink in there. Exactly being the key word. Because if you don't know precisely where you're headed, you'll end up somewhere you'd really rather not be – like inside some drywall. (That happened to me when I was eighteen months old. Uncle Logan had to cut me out with his retractable claws.)

I'm eleven years old now, however, and practically a 'porting expert, almost as good as Papa, really. Most of my aunties and uncles, like Uncle Warren, know this and trust me with this responsibility. After all, I'm taking high school sophomore classes, aren't I? Shouldn't I be treated like an adult in every other way?

Well, some people don't seem to think so … I see one of their disapproving faces as I wink in in the cultural arts complex – Aunt Kitty's, er, Professor Pryde's frowning face. Ah, dammit, if it had been any other teacher, I groan internally. Most of my aunties would bend the School rule that students are not to use their powers without teacher supervision, especially when it comes to someone like me, who is so conscientious about her powers (and everything else) if I do say so myself.

But Aunt Kitty thinks rules bend about as well as that stick up her butt, which is not at all.

"Third time this week, Wagner," she intones. (Did I mention she insists on calling me by my last name like a peon even though my Papa wiped her boogers when she was a little kid?) She strides towards me with her arms crossed, scowling up a storm. I spot Harold Nguyen, Lydia Myers and Terran Fatima and her gang hanging around outside the Secondary Languages Lab where we have sophomore study hall. Terran glances at me sympathetically, but does she make a move to stick up for me? No, she does not. I see that drip Daye smiling smugly behind her, blast her eyes.

"I think that makes three demerits," Kitty says as if I didn't know. She's one of those grownups that like to state the obvious just to be sarcastic and obnoxious. "Meaning Saturday detention. Hmm, don't you think the landscaper needs help on the plant borders along the math and science building?"

Oh, geez, I don't know, I want to reply, but I don't dare. She might dream up some other inhumane punishment. Saturday detention is bad. Landscaping is just cruel. Kitty knows how much I loathe that Fung Sway nonsense and how plant pollen is murder on my delicate sinuses. Considering it's April, peak pollen season, I'll be sneezing and wheezing all of next week. I swear Kitty's secondary mutation is torturing kids.

"Well, Wagner?" she persists because Kitty can't leave well enough alone even when she well knows she's asking hypothetical questions.

"If you're planning on using the same 'scaper – considering how hideous that hack-job looks around the math and science building – I'd say he could use all the help he can get," I reply, deadpan.

"Wow, OK, make that two Saturdays, Wagner," she says. "Insubordination."

She's trying to play it straight-faced, but I can see a smirk playing around her lips. I can feel my blood boiling in my head. Yeah, some of the teachers here at School are strict, especially Uncle Scott. It's not that he doesn't have much of a sense of humor; he's got zero sense of humor. It's not his fault I don't think. Like he isn't trying to be a jerk. I just think he's one of those people that wasn't even born with a sense of humor. Kinda like how some people are born without earlobes or ten toes.

Like last week that drip Daisy came prissing into Geometry a full ten minutes late, just waltzing in like she had a right. Uck. Uncle Bobby or Uncle Warren might have let it slide if she had the decency to be ashamed, but I knew Uncle Scott wouldn't let her off the hook. He's got a scowl that can honest-to-God freeze water. Even seeing it directed at someone else makes me cringe. Terran, Miranda or even Addison would have had the sense to cower, but Daye is so dumb that she believes she can pull a fast one on Uncle Scott just because he wears bright yellow tennis shirts with khakis and argyle socks with high-water trousers. Daye is one of those poor souls that cannot reconcile that that fashion disaster who is her Geometry teacher is also the one and only Cyclops, general of the X-Men. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

But then she did something so stupid it took my breath away. She tried to flash her bosoms at Uncle Scott – like in front of God and everybody. I heard Miranda Diaz suck in her breath and Albert James stutter nervously. I thought I would wet my pants. If Daisy had tried to hit on any of my other uncles, she would have been trashy and awful, but the thing about Uncle Scott is he doesn't get it. Like his wife Aunt Jeanie (who is drop-dead gorgeous, like light years out of Daisy's league) has to tell him when she's flirting with him. His wife. Who he's been with since forever. It's kind of sad, but also kind of adorable.

So the thought of a dumbass teenage girl trying to make him notice her was so incomprehensible the whole class was in a state of utter shock, but was that enough for the skank Daye? Hell, no. Did she consider how Aunt Jeanie could fry every ounce of her brain? No, because Daye has the intelligence of a cinder block.

"Ooh, Mister Summers, I think I'd do anything to make up for this tardy," she cooed.

Uncle Scott regarded her like the idiot she is, an eyebrow climbing so far up his face I thought it would disappear in his hair. He seemed as bewildered as the rest of us – but not at what a skanky-ass hoe Daye is, but at just how stupid she is. Poor Uncle Scott. He's been teaching kids for a long time, but just when he thinks he's seen the dumbest of them, one like Daye comes along.

His face hardened into a stern frown. "All right then, how about cleaning the toilets in the girls' dormitories for a week?" he snapped.

Reality actually started to seep into that thick skull of hers as she was faced with the prospect of mucking out toilet stalls for the next seven days. But what else did she expect? Or maybe she didn't (though it was hard for me to perceive someone that stupid). Perhaps cleaning out toilets was all Daisy was fit for.

But Uncle Scott is fair – almost to a fault. He exempt Thomas Black even though he's a jerk who teases Miranda Diaz relentlessly about her acne, but he made Joetta Watanabe take the midterm examination because she was three points short of exemption. But no teacher baits or goads on the kids here like Professor Pryde. And she gets away with it too because she's Papa's absolute favorite. She grew up as his little sister and has him wrapped around her little finger. It makes me sick. Like I want to throw up.

But I don't take her bait until she gazes down at my feet and raises her perfectly-plucked little eyebrows. "And no shoes?" she coos, dragging out the last word I hate so much. "My goodness, dress code violation. We're on a roll today, aren't we Miss Wagner?"

I clench and unclench my fists. I want to sock her right in her smug mug, but she's a teacher, an X-Woman and Kitty has the power to become intangible. If I did have the nerve to pop her in the face, my fist would just go sailing through thin air.

But I've known Kitty a looong time – since I was a baby, in fact, and I know there are other ways to get to her.

"I'm really sorry, Professor Pryde," I say in my most sugary voice. Kitty smells a rat because she stops smirking. Pryde's a lot of things, but dumb isn't one of them. "See I was telling Uncle Logan about my screenplay. I don't think I've ever told you about my screenplay …?"

A look of sheer panic crosses her pretty face. She stammers: "O-Ok, Wagner, that will be all. Two Saturdays landscaping detention. Observe the dress code from now on."

I smile to myself as soon as her back is turned. All right, I could be offended that some people avoid discussing my screenplay like the plague OR I could be the opportunist I am and put Professor Pryde in her place for a change. Out of the corner of my eye I see Harold Nguyen wink at me and Miranda Diaz give me the thumbs-up. My little smirk turns into a full-blown grin.

###

"I-Ich mag Wurst …" Harold Nguyen stammers through his German tutoring session with me. It's torture. Yeah, Harold's a nice enough kid, but good Lord does he stink at second languages. It's like all that knowledge he has about math and science takes up all the space in his brain and there isn't room for learning how to tell a German fraulein he likes hotdogs – though that scenario does make me smile.

"It's not funny!" he blusters indignantly at me. "Your mother tongue is crazy!"

"It is not any crazier than yours!" I snap back. Vietnamese is hard; I've learned a couple phrases from Missus Pham, the owner of my favorite Pho shop in town, but if I got dropped in the middle of Saigon, I'd be helpless let me tell you. "And German is only one of my two mother tongues, thank you very much!"

Harold grins a bit at me. He's too good-natured to hold a grudge. Besides I think I am justified in my indignation. His insistence that German is my "native language" is like how some people want to make me choose between my Papa's family and my Mama's. Just because they live apart, they both belong to me. How could I choose one?

"Com'on, Harold, you learned English easily enough," I say.

"I was six years old!" he states. His breathing speeds up and I sense a panic-attack coming on. "I need to make at least a high B in German, TJ! I'm already in Intermediate Secondary Languages!"

"Hey, man, try to relax," I sooth, though I get it. With a father like Harold's, I can see why he's so nervous. I met Mister Nguyen at Family Day last year. He's what my Uncle Logan calls a "rounder." Harold's papa is the kind that doesn't care that his son has mutant powers – if those mutant powers help his boy get into the best medical college, he may as well. But heaven forbid Harold make anything less than a B-plus in any of his classes. His old man gave him complete hell for being pushed down to Intermediate German.

I really feel sorry for the kid. Sure, I'm taking sophomore-level classes, but I've always been ahead of my age academically. My Papa isn't breathing down my neck about it.

"Look, Hare, how 'bout I tutor you twice a week until final exams, OK?" I say, feeling regret set in even as I murmur the words. Two Saturdays of detention (landscaping, no less) and mind-numbingly boring tutoring lessons with Harold Nguyen twice a week. That means I can kiss the only study hall day I have – Friday – free to do whatever I like goodbye. But I cannot say no to someone that pitiful. Just like my Papa, Uncle Logan says.

Harold's round face lights up like a menorah. "Thanks, Teej!" he says, although I hate that nickname. Seeing him that happy and relieved is worth it, I guess.

I shrug. Study hall is almost over. The other kids are loafing around, chatting and generally goofing. Professor Pryde runs a tight and tidy ship, but she does allow the students to socialize the last fifteen minutes of study hall if their work is done. I gaze at them all wistfully. I'm at a very strange intersection. Mama and Papa had me when they were crazy young – too young to know any better, Uncle Logan says – so my uncles and aunties at School have children now who are preschoolers. Given the way I look and the powers I have, going to a "normal" school among human kids my age is out of the question. I've always held my own academically among kids four or five years older than me, but my classmates have never accepted me as their peer, their friend.

Even Harold, as soon as our tutoring session is over, turns to Devon and strikes up a conversation. I'm the reason Harold has a passing grade in German, but does he invite me over to hang out? No, he does not.

Across from me, Miranda and Jordan have their heads together, discussing the Anime Club they're starting. Lydia is chattering with Connie Dunn, making expressive motions with her hands. And Terran Fatima is holding court surrounded by her entourage: Addison, Lin and, of course, Daisy. They are chatting up John Proudstar and his best friend Tye.

John's twin brother, James, is sitting sulkily off to the side. They're supposed to be identical and I guess they look alike – both tall, striking with long black hair and brown eyes – but it's hard to see the resemblance when James is constantly scowling like someone peed in his cereal. He's trouble – hot-headed, always spoiling for a fight. There's a reason the other kids call him Warpath. He turns his glare on me and I have to resist the urge to shrink. James has always had it out for me for some reason. Maybe because he has a problem with authority and I'm the principal's daughter.

I glare right back at him, letting him know he can't intimidate me, but I don't take it any further. If we got into it here, I know Kitty would find some way to put the blame all on me.

Then the unthinkable happens. Terran looks at me and waves me over. I can't believe it. She must be gesturing to the others around me, right? I glance at Harold, Devon, Miranda and Jordan who just blink back at me, wide-eyed. They're a bit at the bottom of the social food-chain. Terran and her clique have never invited them over before. She waves directly to me again and my neighbors give me an expression that tells me they are thinking exactly what I am: Why the hell does Terran want to talk to me?!

At first, I suspect a trap because Daye is with her, but I push that thought aside. Terran is beautiful and popular, but she isn't mean. She wouldn't try to embarrass me. I glance tentatively at Miranda. "I-I think Terran wants to … talk to you, TJ!" she whispers.

"Seems like it," I reply, swallowing.

"Uh, what are you going to do?" Jordan asks, her brown eyes round.

"I-I'm going to go over there and talk to her," I say, trying to take on the air of calm authority my Papa has in his role as principal.

"Good idea," whispers Harold. And adds as I stand up to approach the Popular Girls: "Good luck!"

I can feel my heart pounding. To my ears, it sounds like a tipani. I could overhear what Terran was saying to her friends, of course, about going to the Kanehoe Mall. I'll be headed there Saturday to the Farmers' Market, though it goes without saying the chances of hanging with the Terran Squad are zilch.

"Hola! Guten Tag!" I blurt before I can stop my mouth. I cringe internally because it sounds so cheesy and Daye's rolling eyes confirm it, but Terran grins.

"See what I was saying about TJ being a riot?" she says to her friends. Hmm, this is new information. Terran must have said it to her pals during their weekend outings to Kanehoe Square where they like to hang out. Somewhere out of my hearing range.

Addison nods in a friendly fashion. She's a pretty girl with straight dark-red hair and brown eyes. John even gives me a smile. He's fit and very good-looking, especially up close. I can hear his heart beating. I blush. James makes a disgruntled noise and turns his back pointedly on me. Eh, so what. It's not like Terran wants him there. She's just being nice to him on account of John. For her part, Daisy is frowning like a grumpy potato. She can suck a duck for all I care.

But Terran … Terran is the prettiest girl in sophomore class, maybe even the whole School. It's no wonder she's Queen Bee. She wears a hijab. It covers most of her hair, neck and shoulders. My aunties told me Terran's religion says the hijab encourages modesty, but Terran gets way more attention from the boys and the girls at School than Daisy Daye who is constantly showing off her tits and legs. Terran's got those slanting India-ink eyes and what I can see of her hair is that amazing shiny color that's neither black nor brown. And her hijab always has some cool design embroidered on it – today it has a neat pattern that looks a bit like a dragonfly if you squint at it just right.

"We're going to Kanehoe Mall this Saturday and then on to Dogland to hit up the arcade and day-glow golf. You wanna come with us?" Terran asks.

I blink at them, looking like an idiot, I'm sure. I guess Terran takes my response as refusal because she glances at Addison in a disappointed way. "Told you she'd flake," Daisy murmurs in a mean, sniffy way.

"N-No, I mean yes!" I reply, suddenly finding my voice. Then, when Terran tilts a gorgeously sculpted eyebrow at me and Addison bites her lip in a humorous way, I realize I probably sound overeager and silly. "I-I mean danke, gracias, for sure amigas!"

They burst out laughing like I've said the funniest thing ever. I notice Aunt Kitty lift her head and gaze over at us from her desk; she scowls when she sees me. I struggle not to glare back at her. I've finished my tutoring duties for the day and there's no rule that says I can't socialize with the other students just because I've never got the chance to do it before. As for going out with Terran and her squad – that's not up to Kitty either, is it? I know Papa will not just allow me to go with them; he will be over the moon. Even though he never mentions it, I know he worries that I have no friends.

"Yep, a total riot!" Terran chuckles, patting my arm. She smells divine, like Aunt Jeanie's special ginger tea. "We'll meet you in the Food Court, OK?"

"Doesn't a little kid like her need to ask her Daddy's permission first?" Daye pipes up. She's mad 'cause Terran's attention is off her for a millisecond. Even though Daye's an insufferable cow, she and Terran have been roommates since they both arrived here at the School two years ago. Daisy's mad jealous of her beautiful gf.

"Actually, Papa trusts me out on my own in town," I reply, looking directly at Daye when I say it. She actually flushes a bit. Hah, there! I think, satisfied. That isn't a lie, either. I've been running Saturday errands at the Kanehoe Farmers' Market all by myself since I was nine years old. Of course, all the vendors there have known me since I was a baby (and look out for me like I'm their own) but still …

"Have fun at baby golf then," John says, laughing. I glance at him, but he doesn't seem to be teasing. His brown face is good-natured and smiling. I blush again which causes my blue skin to turn an unflattering shade of purple. "We'll be hitting up the real links, ladies."

"You and your snobby Golf Club, Johnny Proudstar!" Terran replies, socking his arm which looks as big around as her whole body. John, James and Tye have been here since eighth grade, just like Terran and her friends. But since last year, John's hit an amazing growth spurt. He's already taller than Uncle Scott and he's only fifteen. Aunt Jeanie says some mutant boys do that … it's part of their mutation. Just like my Uncle Piotr, who I've never even met.

John jostles her back, but I notice they're sparring around like brother and sister. They aren't flirting. Which is just as well because the sexes here at School are severely segregated. The only time boys and girls intermingle is occasionally during classes. And good luck to teens trying to hook up anywhere outside of classes with psychics like Aunt Jeanie and super-sensory dudes like Uncle Logan watching their every move. Even now, with Terran and John's back-and-forth sibling banter, I see Aunt Kitty glaring a hole through them. Terran must notice too because she dries it up real fast and nods at me.

"Eleven o'clock Saturday then?" she says.

"I'll be there and I'll be square!" I exclaim, causing my classmates to roar with laughter again. Hey, if they want lame jokes, I've got a million. Who knew teenagers are so easy to impress? I see Kitty's frown fall almost to the floor.

###

"For the millionth time, Vicky, no!" I growl through my fangs, my eyes fixed on the television.

I hear Vicky, who is trying to sneak up on me, cower back. If she were on the wing, she'd have another shot at me, but she's on foot because flying isn't allowed indoors and, with the exception of flying, Vicky is unable to do anything quietly. I can hear her pouting and I don't dare look at her. All I'd have to do to cave is look at her disappointed little face. Vicky's big brown puppy-dog eyes can persuade just about anyone to do anything.

She's trying to coax me into painting my talons with sparkly toenail polish and I'm having none of it. Isn't it enough she's made me watch Arctic Adventures with her? Arctic Adventures is this super-lame kids' show about these baby Arctic animals who can talk and work together which makes zero sense because wouldn't Humphrey the weasel try to eat Bethany the spruce hen?

However … I do kinda sorta like it. Not that I'd ever tell anyone, least of all Vicky.

I'm sitting on the sofa of the suite I share with Papa. It's been my home for as long as I can remember. Well, my second home – the other being Mama's actual literal castle. Papa's suite is no palace for sure, but it's pretty cozy and homey what with the shabby sofa and the timeline of photographs of me hanging on the wall. All the pictures are pretty geeky – of me when I was a drool-faced baby sitting in a highchair with mashed carrots smeared on my face or lighting the menorah with Mama and Aunt Lori the Hanukah when I was three years old.

I'm really glad Terran and her buddies can't see them.

After final period, I headed home to wait for Papa and Uncle Warren. It's Friday – or "Pho-Day" as we call it. We're going to head out to Kit and Ka-Noodle, our favorite Pho joint, as we do at the beginning of every weekend as a kind of hurrah for a week well done.

But first I have to watch the little ones, my aunties and uncles' kiddos, while Papa leads the end-of-the-week faculty meeting. Vicky is by far the most high maintenance of my little cousins. Andre and Hope are a snap. Hope's engrossed with her toy tea-set and she's teaching her baby bro 'Dre about proper teatime etiquette. 'Dre keeps ramming his toy dinosaurs into his big sister's tea service. Instead of going ape and knocking him upside the head the way any other three-year-old would, Hope calmly explains to Andre that isn't the proper way to take tea.

I'm half-watching Arctic Adventures (Ben the grey wolf is trying to free an Arctic hare from a snare. Wouldn't a proper grey wolf just eat the hare?) and half-considering telling Papa about my date tomorrow with Terran. (OK, OK, it's not an actual date. We'll be with all Terran's friends. Terran is almost sixteen and I'm almost twelve and she has a girlfriend besides, but still …)

"Vick, knock it off!" I snap. She has a tiny paintbrush hovering over the talon on my big toe. I was lost in thought and she almost got me.

"Awww, maaan!" she drawls. It's a catchphrase she's just learned and she uses it at every opportunity, much to everyone else's chagrin.

At that moment, Papa teleports inside the suite, holding onto Uncle Warren's shoulder to 'port him along. They're laughing softly together which meant faculty meeting went well. Papa's in a good mood. I mean, he usually is his jovial self, but I need him to be in an extra good mood this evening …

"Daddy!" Vicky yelps and half-jumps, half-flies into Warren's waiting arms like she hasn't seen him in weeks instead of two hours ago.

"Thank God it's 'Pho-Day!'" Papa sings out. I roll my eyes at him, but if I'm completely honest with myself, I've inherited his full capacity for lame "dad-jokes." And, if I'm still being honest, his corny sense of humor is one reason I absolutely adore him.

Auntie Marie and Uncle Remy have 'ported in too with Papa, Marie holding onto Papa's hand and her other entwined with Remy's. Hope and Andre run to them. "Can we go too? Please? Please?" Hope begs her Mama and Papa.

"Peas? Peas?" 'Dre, who is eighteen months old and hasn't quite got the hang of talking, parrots his sister.

"Not tonight, petites," Remy soothes his progeny in his thick Cajun accent. "But you stay up late with yah Daddy tonight."

Hope's face falls a bit, but then brightens like the sun at her Papa's promise.

"I get to stay up 'till eleven on Fwiday and watch Johnny Mack on Late Night!" she boasts to me like that's the biggest deal. I guess when you're three it is.

She's a cute kid, all soulful hazel eyes and chestnut curls. Marie and Remy were approached by an advertising agent when Hope was a baby; he wanted her to be a baby model which sounds a tad creepy. She's a laidback kid too. She doesn't throw a fit at being told no the way most toddlers would.

I think Hope's genial nature is due to having a Mama as feisty and high-spirited as Marie. Right now, Marie tweaks my nose and pinches my cheek.

"Hey dere, sugah," she says in her honey-sweet Southern drawl.

No matter how old or how tall I get I think Auntie Marie will always treat me like a baby. But then she treats everyone like a baby – when you're as big and tall as her I guess you can't help it. Big and boxumous with a silver streak of hair flashing through her mane of auburn tresses, Auntie Marie doesn't look much like my Papa at all and she doesn't sound or act much like him either. I call all the lady teachers here "auntie," but Marie and Papa have the same Mama – my Granny Raven. I've never seen her before, not even in pictures, and Papa never talks about her. My aunties and uncles sometimes mention her, but only in undertones so Papa can't hear. Of course, I can hear. And what I hear is that Granny Raven looks a lot like me and Papa – blue skin, indigo hair, big amber eyes and cute little fangs. Nothing like Auntie Marie, but I never thought that was so strange. After all, my brothers – Billy and Tommy – have the same Mama as I do and nobody who didn't know us would ever guess we were related.

"You're growing up tall, Miss TJ. Pretty soon, it'll be time for yah Daddy to marry yah off!" Marie teases. Teasing is what she loves to do best and she can always get away with it because she's so big and burly, but also so charming and pretty.

"Ha, hah," I laugh sarcastically, but I also blush a bit, thinking of John Proudstar and Terran Fatima. Then Marie cuddles up to Remy and I'm turned right off of any mushy thoughts. The two of them act like love-struck teenagers, not an old married couple who's been together forever and a day. It's downright disgusting … but also kinda adorable, I guess. I'd rather them be all over each other in love than at each other throats fighting all the time, for the sake of Uncle Remy's health.

Uncle Remy isn't a small man – he's taller than Papa, in fact – but he sure looks tiny up alongside Auntie Marie. My uncles say she was the one who carried him over the threshold when they got married – and I don't think they're joking either. She's a full head taller than him. He almost has to get a step-stool to kiss her. I once asked him when I was really little if it bothered him that his wife was bigger than him. Remy just laughed and looked at me like I was crazy.

"Where I come from, women is suppose' to be big!" he said to me. "What good is a skinny wife? Let me as' you that. You could stand a lil' fatten' up you'self, petite!" And he put two whopping pieces of fried chicken on my plate. Nobody in the world cooks better than Uncle Remy.

Sometimes I wonder if that's why Marie married him.

###

We teleport into town, Papa and me, which is about three miles away. Uncle Warren and Vicky fly there. It's OK. The human people in town pretty much know us all by name. Most of them have known me since I was little, so I don't have to wear my image inducer which I absolutely hate. Like, I hate it more than shoes if you want some idea of how horrible it is. It makes me look like a "normal" human girl. No blue skin covered in fuzz. No purple hair. No weeny adorable fangs. Just plain ole straggly brown hair and boring blue eyes. Yuck.

But I have to wear it when I'm going to a place where mutants haven't been accepted, let alone protected. In our little town, most folks know me and Papa is respected as an upstanding member of the community – he's even on the city council. People here know we're not dangerous, Papa says. Though I think it's bonkers anybody would ever assume that about us. But Papa says in many parts of the world mutants are … and those are very dangerous places for them. In some places, mutants are hunted down like animals and kept in cages. Papa knows because that happened to him a long time ago when he was a kid.

But tonight, of course, I get to go out in all my fuzzy glory. OK, I'm not exactly vain. I don't priss in front of a mirror for days like some other girls I could name (*cough* Daisy *cough*) and then say, "OMG, I woke up like this!" Nope, for me, plaiting my hair and putting on pants is saying something for me, but I am proud of my fur and fangs. I know they look awesome. And I'm proud of my powers – they just make life easier, sometimes. Plus they're super cool.

Warren has to keep Vicky on one of those toddler harnesses, y'know the kind that looks like a kid's backpack shaped like a monkey, but the monkey's tail is a leash. And everyone pretends it's a cute little backpack, but everyone knows the kid is out of control and warrants a leash. Not because people in the neighborhood are wary of people with wings (Warren, like all my uncles and aunties, is pretty much a fixture around town) but because otherwise, Vicky would be zipping around all over the place and he couldn't keep up with her.

When we 'port inside Kit and Ka-Noodle, and Warren and Vicky swoop inside, Missus Pham greets us with a merry: "Well, here's my favorite girls!"

Missus Pham is a tiny, tiny woman in a perpetual hair-net and loafers. She wears huge glasses that make her look like an adorable little owl. Vicky and I race each other to the shop counter to greet her (even though I'm practically twelve and too old for such nonsense).

"You two pretty girls don't have boyfriends yet?" Missus Pham asks us.

I pull a face and Vicky shouts, "Yuk!"

"Good!" she replies, completely straight-faced. "What good will a boy do you now? You must study hard in school. You'll have no time for a boyfriend until you're at least thirty and a doctor."

"Excellent advice," Warren says with a laugh.

Kit and Ka-Noodle is hopping. It usually is, even on a dead weekday, but it's Friday and packed to bursting. We're all regulars here, however, plus Papa is one of Missus Pham's oldest friends (he helped her with her Naturalization and Citizenship process), so she's got our usual orders of Pho hot and ready – mine with extra hot chili paste and Vicky's garnished with dried crickets.

We grab our noodles and 'port outside because my ears are already throbbing from the noise inside the tiny shop (that would make even everyday common ears ache). We 'port back to Papa's suite where we all sprawl out on the sofa and beanbag chairs to discuss the day. As usual, talk turns to School. Uncle Warren starts griping about Deidra "Dizzy" Diaz, Miranda's big sister. Dizzy's a senior and nothing like her sweet, shy, anime-loving baby sister. Dizzy's a troublemaker. Being raised here at School, I've seen her type. She's a kid who's reckless, but then wants to blame any "accidents" on her budding powers going out of control – like how the roof of Uncle Scott's storage shed was blown off by hurricane force winds last month. Warren and all the other teachers here are on to her shit, but our School is a "last resort" for kids like Dizzy. Her foster parents threw her and Miranda out on the streets which is where Aunt Jeanie found them. So there's nothing for it except to punish Dizzy by taking away privileges and Aunt Jeanie putting psychic power inhibitors in her brain so Dizzy doesn't have full access to her wind-control abilities. Even then, Aunt Jeanie can only take it so far. If she shut off the switch in Dizzy's head that controlled her powers, she could give her permanent brain damage.

It's a frustrating dilemma, especially for kids like me who have a debilitating power, but try their best to control or at least contain it. Seeing a kid like Dizzy abuse her powers is like watching a fool fire off a gun like its Christmas. It's sickening.

"Give her some errands to run for Scott," Papa advises Warren. "She'll think twice before pulling another stunt … at least for a little while."

I shiver. Uncle Scott's detentions make Kitty's look like Kindergarten. I've never had one, but some of the big beefcakes at our School start crying halfway through. One time he made James Proudstar stare at paint drying until he shed tears of blood and another time he forced Harriet Mims to listen to Stephen Hawkins count to one thousand.

"We must remember that just because we have dangerous powers that are difficult to control, that doesn't mean we can forfeit our responsibility to control them," Papa says, his usually jovial tone turning very serious.

Even Vicky, who doesn't know most of the words he just used, looks up to stare intently at my Papa. This is a philosophy that's been driven into me since I was born, but Papa still never loses a chance to repeat it – it's that important. In some cases, deathly important.

He and Uncle Warren turn their attention to us girls and his usually light tone returns. "So how did School go today for my two little frauleins?" he asks. Papa has lived in America since he was a teen and has lost most of his German accent, but it shows itself now and then.

Vicky seems eager to talk, even thru a mouthful of cricket-peppered noodles, which is just fine by me. I want to delay the topic of my schoolday for as long as possible.

"I got ah fell-par for mah rock collect-shun!" she shouts, spraying bits of Pho everywhere.

"Victoria!" Warren scolds her.

Vicky shrugs. "Roxy gave it to me. Said it was very special because it come from the Wendy's parking lot."

"It came from the Wendy's parking lot," Warren corrects his little chick.

"Yup! Then we learned about rose quartz rocks. How they come out of volcan-NOS!" Vicky's wings shoot out at this exclamation, causing a folding table to collapse, spilling soup in all directions. As Warren and Papa scramble for napkins, I roll my eyes at her. The kid with wings in obsessed with rocks. Go figure.

I hope Vicky's little accident will distract Papa from me, but it doesn't, of course. Papa has known a lot of kids. He isn't fooled by his own little elf.

As he glances at me expectantly, I heave a huge sigh and bolt the rest of my super-spicy soup in one big gulp. I let out a rip-roaring burp. Vicky giggles and even Warren smiles, but Papa frowns at me. "TJ …" he says in that "are-you-in-trouble?" way.

Might as well get it out of the way. There's just no hiding anything from Papa. It's not like I can keep secrets from him what with having all my aunties and uncles watching my every move. And I'd much rather him hear it from me than Aunt Kitty who will make me look like a demon-spawn.

"Professor Pryde gave me detention Saturday …" I mutter.

"What?" Papa demands.

"Two Saturdays. Buuut," I add quickly. "I'm holding an A-minus in only one class – Advanced Algebra – every other class is A-plus's all the way. I got the role of Beatrice in "Much Ado" AND I'm tutoring five different kids. All of which, I might add, are five years older than me and have improved their grades significantly including Harold who now has a B-minus in German." I narrow my eyes a bit at Papa. He's the drama coach as well and I'm the youngest kid in Xavier's School history to land the role of Beatrice. He's also the German professor and I know he was ready to give Harold up as a hopeless case.

"But Kitty gave you detention," he says, punctuating his words with his chopsticks.

"So that makes me a devil from hell?" I ask.

"Language." Papa scowls as Vicky looks on with big eyes. I roll mine; the kid hears a lot worse from our aunties and uncles, even her own dad.

I scowl down at the remnants of green onions swimming in soup broth and try another tactic. "None of the other teachers give me detentions, not even write-ups or warnings," I say. "Kitty …" Papa frowns at me. "Aunt Kitty," I sigh as I correct myself. "She's a horrible bully. She's always picking on me. She singles me out for punishment!"

"That just isn't true," Papa says, shaking his head. I feel just as frustrated; trust Papa to take Kitty's part. "Kitty wouldn't give you detention without good reason …?" his question hangs in the air as his amber eyes burn into me.

He wins. I drop my head in resignation. "I may have been – teleporting – to class."

"Talia Wagner!" Papa snaps.

"Only because I was late and only because Vicky jumped me!" I splutter.

"Yup! I goosed her!" Vicky crows as she slurps soup.

I cut my eyes at her and then risk a pleading look at Uncle Warren, hoping he will step in at this point and tell Papa about this afternoon's little incident and how he kinda sorta gave me permission to, or at least didn't stop me from, teleporting to study hall. But Warren seems very interested in his Pho. Traitor … I mutter internally.

"What does it even matter?" I grumble. "I'm practically an expert at teleportation. All the other teachers allow me to –"

"All the other teachers, your aunties and uncles, spoil you terribly," Papa cuts me off, holding up his three-fingered hand. But I notice a smile tugging at his lips. "They always have, kleines hemd. You were the baby of the family for the longest time."

Usually I would be rankled by this term of endearment that Papa has used on me since I can remember. It means "little shirt" (don't ask). And I absolutely loathe it. But I remember I'm trying to get on his good side and I play along with what I hope is my most winning expression, round golden eyes and all. I'm cute and I know it and I'd be lying if I said I have never used that to my advantage.

I know things can only go two ways now. As I wait, holding my breath, expecting Papa to either give me hell (intensifying Kitty's punishment) or soften (maybe even forgiving and forgetting it, if I'm lucky), he surprises me. His smile turns warm and sentimental. "But then before … Kitty was as well."

I prick up my ears at this. I'm always eager to hear about the time "before" – before Papa was principal of our School, before he retired from the X-Men, before I was born and Kitty lost her status as "baby" of our massive extended family at Xavier's School. Back when "Professor Pryde" was just a snot-nosed kid my Papa looked after like a baby sister.

"Our katzchen, our little kitten, was my own special pet," Papa says with another shake of his head. "We all spoiled her badly. She came here when she wasn't more than a baby and she only had to pout to get her own way." He chuckled. "But I couldn't help but give it to her – none of us could, you see? She would do the most outlandish things, but in the most serious and solemn way, you couldn't help but laugh!"

He laughed himself as he turned to Warren. "Do you remember her 'Sprite' costume, mein freund?"

"God, yes!" Warren replied, smacking his forehead. "It was ridiculous!"

Papa looks at me and Vicky, both of us nonplussed, and explains, his burnished copper eyes sparkling with glee. "Kitty wanted so badly to join the X-Men. But she was only eight years old at the time. Professor Xavier told her she could join the team if she came up with her own costume."

Papa and Warren collapse with laughter, but Warren bravely forges ahead to tell us girls: "So she rolls into breakfast one morning wearing striped leggings, a mini-skirt, suspenders and a mask, covered head-to-toe in glitter and wearing roller skates!"

"Her face was like stone when she told Cyclops, 'Sprite reporting for duty!'" Papa's words are punctuated by another howl of laughter from both Warren and himself.

"I thought I would die laughing!" Warren hoots. "Even Scott cracked a smile!"

Whoa. Kitty chipped thru Uncle Scott's tough shell? Damn, I had to admit I was impressed. It was kinda funny. Kinda like how I dressed up in Aunt Lori's headband and cape when I was five and proclaimed: "I am the Mistress of Magnetism!"

It was fun to imagine Aunt Kitty as a dead-serious little kid doing something so amazingly ridiculous. I wonder why Papa is telling me this, but then I notice the twinkle in his eye. I would never tell this story around School to the students there – nobody in my family would. (No matter how tempting it seemed. Even scary Professor Pryde would never live it down.) But Papa knows how much I love knowing everything about everyone. Having something over on ol' Pryde is the ultimate prize.

As the grownups' laughter dies down a bit – which Vicky joined in not because she gets the joke but because she's four and laughter is as contagious as the stomach bug to someone her age – they all loll around in a dazed state. I decide now is the best time to ask timidly: "Soooo … does this mean I-I, um, don't have two Saturdays' detention?"

Papa grins at me, showing off his sharp fangs. "Not a chance, liebchen. Make it three Saturdays."