Wednesday, April 28, 1993. Five days had passed since the Central Park Talent Show, and Andrew was back on the yellow school bus heading to campus.
He could feel the stares from every direction—no distinction between boys and girls, everyone sneaking glances at him in particular. Even for Andrew, who was no shrinking violet—a rough-and-tumble kid at heart—this was getting old fast.
"Hey, Andrew—you really sure you're okay to be back so soon?" Freckle-faced Arthur asked, tiptoeing carefully around his friend's dignity.
Surrounded by a ring of classmates who'd gone conspicuously still while their ears perked up, Andrew felt exhausted and faintly irritable. He knew this was just the beginning. Once they got to school, there'd be even more pitying looks to deal with.
The thing was, it was already late April, and middle school let out in mid-May—barely two weeks away. By rights, the smart play was to stay home until graduation. But this was also crunch time for final exams, and Andrew wasn't Maya; he'd been dutifully working through his elective requirements all year, and he still had course credits to finish. He couldn't afford to coast.
(Author's note: As mentioned before, American middle and high schools have elective courses; in China, electives don't start until university. In this 8-year elementary school system, electives begin in 7th grade. Maya had wrapped up her own requirements ages ago; Andrew is in 8th grade second semester and still has a few courses outstanding. Any university graduate will know exactly how this feels.)
If the injury had truly been severe, he'd have stayed in his hospital room and watched Jordan chase a three-peat. But it had fully healed—he could move around freely—and repeating a year over something like this would be absurd. Short-term pain over long-term regret. His dad's album was selling well; whether they'd move after summer was unclear, but Andrew was definitely transferring to a decent prep school for high school. He just had to survive two more weeks, and everything would be fine.
Andrew was still lost in thought when his little brother Jamal leaned forward and announced to the group: "Arthur, you're seriously underestimating Andrew. You all don't know this—but Andrew got with Nurse Susan from St. Maria's! They thought I was asleep, but they were, like, examining his condition, and then one thing led to another, and I watched the whole thing."
"Oh damn!" Arthur yelped. "Andrew, you animal!"
"Seriously though? Didn't people say it was split in two?" Classmate A said, skeptical.
"Hmm." Tuck squared his jaw and began his analysis with the air of a detective at work. "Andrew, you're insulting our intelligence. You think planting your little brother to say that is going to fool anyone? Bull. The real reason you're walking around like nothing happened is because they clearly went ahead with a full amputation of the upper portion. Look at those baggy sweats—obviously hiding something. I've got this figured out."
Andrew's face had gone red, but he had no idea how to push back. The recovery was weirdly fast, and Lucius had told him to keep a low profile. On top of that, he hadn't counted on Jamal witnessing anything last night—or broadcasting it on the school bus. Now he was boxed in. Deny Jamal's story? That confirmed the castration theory. Accept it? Claiming he'd slept with a young, attractive nurse was something these people weren't going to believe, and even if they did—well, he'd noticed the look Maya was currently giving him. He'd definitely noticed that.
Jamal, for his part, was genuinely aggrieved. He hadn't made anything up. He was stating facts.
"Tuck Barrett, I'm not lying. I'll even tell you—Andrew only lasted three minutes. And Susan had to comfort him afterward—"
"Jamal!"
Maya and Andrew shouted at the same time.
"Jamal." Madam President's voice was level, precise, and completely without warmth. "Spreading obscene content in a public setting at your age—two Conduct Points docked."
"Sis Maya..." Jamal started, caught Madam President's expression, and thought better of it.
The rest of the bus fell quiet under the force of that authority. Even feverish curiosity couldn't survive that silence.
Not that Maya personally minded a bit of locker room talk, as long as she wasn't the subject. The real issue was that Andrew's recovery was suspicious. A week ago the thing had been in two pieces. By Tuesday he was apparently well enough to fool around with women. Classmates might be academically mediocre, but they weren't stupid—the word "mutant" was never far behind sudden miraculous recoveries.
Maya hadn't been fully briefed on the blood test at the hospital, but her instinct was to keep the whole thing as low-key as possible. Because the actual mutant in that incident hadn't been Andrew—it was Liz.
Some might wonder: why not simply slow the healing down? Well—first, Andrew's injury was in a location where delayed healing would very likely have resulted in permanent damage. Second, Maya had been using the Healing Jutsu for the first time, on a live test subject; getting the heal to work at all had been enough of an achievement, and fine speed control was beyond her current skill level. Third—and frankly the most important factor—the injury's location. Maya had powered through the discomfort once, and that had already required extraordinary willpower. Slowing it down meant treating him again, day after day, which would require her to focus her Chakra on that area daily. For that, Madam President would have sooner let Andrew's situation become a permanent problem.
Docking Jamal's Conduct Points was also a strategic signal to the rest of the school: stop talking about this.
Under Madam President's overbearing authority, the yellow school bus rolled in silence through the school gates. Andrew didn't wait for anyone to recover—he grabbed Jamal by the arm and bolted off the bus.
"Andrew, what are you doing? If you hit me, Sis Maya and Dad are both going to come after you!"
Jamal panicked, thinking a beating was coming, and let out a yelp that turned heads throughout the crowd.
"Relax. I'm not going to hit you." Andrew lowered his voice, steering his brother toward the bathroom. "We're going to swap pants."
"But mine are too small—you won't fit."
"They're leather. They'll stretch."
"And yours are way too big. I can't wear them."
"Roll up the legs."
...
Five minutes later, Andrew—having removed his underwear entirely to gain the extra fraction of an inch—had squeezed himself into Jamal's leather pants. He looked down at the result. T-shirt and leather pants. Something's off about this combination.
After a moment's consideration, he reached down and tied the hem of his T-shirt into a knot at his navel.
"That'll do," he said, surveying himself. "I'm putting everything on display now—no excuses, no room for doubt. Try calling me a eunuch after you've seen this."
Andrew pushed open the stall door and walked out.
The hallway near the lockers was packed with the morning jostle—students dropping off bags, catching up before class. They saw Andrew coming, and one by one they stopped. Jaws dropped open, practically in sequence.
"Jesus Chris!"
"Holy shit!"
"Oh my god—"
"Damn you!"
"God damn!"
The exclamations rippled down the corridor like a wave. Andrew's chest swelled. He straightened up, widened his stride, and strutted forward—like Wei Yangheng from The Carnal Prayer Mat making his triumphant second entrance to the pleasure halls—so pleased with himself he was practically floating off the ground.