Layla & Kurt | Thursday afternoon

[x-mandelbrot.livejournal.com]

On her first day of classes at Xavier's Layla meets her new German teacher and ropes him into a highly beneficial deal.

Layla was early. Not just early but a little too early. She put it down to the nonexistent commute to school from her room and made a mental note to figure out what the long way here was. The classroom was empty but she figured with the equally nonexistent student body it probably wasn't liable to fill up. That meant her usual spot at the back of the class was pretty much null and void. The blonde dropped her notebook onto a desk up front and collapsed into the chair. Her feet got propped up on the chair next to hers and she settled in to wait for the next five minutes until class began. She wasn't sure you could call it a class if there was less than ten people in it. That just seemed off somehow.

Her hair fell, obscuring her face as she wrote to kill the time. The veil of hair worked just as much as her arm to cloak the words she wrote, waiting for the sound of footsteps to indicate when it would be time to flip to a new page and be ready for the learning or whatever. Typically Layla liked her German classes but she had no such high hopes for her new class. For one, the likelihood that it would be less than five students didn't appeal to her. All that inescapable attention wasn't her thing.

The footsteps came, eventually, though they were unusually soft given that the walker wasn't wearing shoes, and the classroom door opened. "Good morning, Miss Miller," Kurt said pleasantly. "And welcome to the school."

She heard the voice before the footsteps and unceremoniously pulled her feet off the other chair, wobbling and nearly falling off the one she was sitting on in the process. Layla attempted to regain her composure and flipped to a new page in her notebook, trying very hard all the while to pretend nothing had just happened. Since it was German class she smiled and returned, "Guten morgen, Herr..." she had to flip to a totally different page in her notebook to figure out what her teacher's name was, "Sefton." Maybe that was sort of make up for her totally almost assplanting there a second ago.

"Sehr gut," Kurt returned with a grin. "And you can sit however you like, there is no need to be uncomfortable."

Layla just about instantly was slouching in her seat with her converse-clad feet back up on the other chair. "Danke." On the bright side, she'd been back to school for about a month before transferring over here so she'd already gotten her refresher course on German to shake out the dust. On the duller side...well, she'd only taken two years of it. "Sefton does not sound German but you sound German," she said in the language before swapping over to English to clarify. "I mean, you've got the accent. But Sefton doesn't sound like it's German. Did you grow up there? Army brat? Seems like lots of Army was stationed there around when you woulda been a kid, right? Are your parents actually, like, English or something?" The difference between how quickly she spoke in English as opposed to German was drastic. Layla had to think a bit more about German so she spoke it at what most people would consider a normal speed. English, on the other hand, well, the girl liked questions and they tended to come out pretty much on top of one another. Breathing was a mystical thing she managed quite contrary to the laws of physics according to some people who knew her.

"I am German", he confirmed. "A gypsy from Bavaria. It is something of a long story, my father's name is Wagner and I used that for many years but more recently I changed it to match my adopted sister."

This made her eyes go wide, something made all the more exaggerated from the thick, black eyeshadow she wore. "Seriously? A gypsy? Like, speaks Romani and everything? Wait...do you have all their weird religious beliefs? Like..oh, what was it? Like how everything to do with the waist down is dirty? And everything from the waist up is clean? Except maybe the mouth? Or hands? Hands, I think it was hands that were dirty. And women are like super unclean when they get their periods and shit? And, oh, I didn't mean weird like in a bad way. Just, y'know, weird to me. Because, hi, I've never known a gypsy. Is it bad if I say 'gypsy'? It's like not PC right? Romani, I've never known anyone who was romani. I knew a kid who had like a momentary obsession about them once and he'd sit around rattling shit off to me. I'm sorta fuzzy on most of it now though."

Kurt blinked through the whole spiel, then laughed a little. "Yes, I speak Romani - in fact, German is my second language but one I know very well. You need not worry, I usually take offence based on intent and I know you meant no harm. Personally, I am a Catholic but many of my clan do still hold to the old traditions."

Wide-eyed was apparently the look Layla was going for because she was back to looking a little awe-struck. "Oooh, would you teach me? Not in German class, obviously. Or for class. Do you think the Bald Guy would actually give me class credit if you did? Like, an elective cultural studies? Not the point. There's like no real information on the Romani. It's all white people making assumptions and shit and I found a book of folklore once but then my placement got moved and the next people weren't really into cultures other than their own. They were like super Irish. Which is stupid because it was like their great, great grandparents who came from Ireland and they'd never even been there. What the fuck, right? But it'd be really cool to learn like actual Romani folklore and traditions and stuff." Then Layla broke out into a broad grin. "Then if I ever met another Romani they wouldn't think I was a really bad...what's the word for non-Romani people? Sounds like gazebo?"

"I do not see why he would not," he said with a grin. "Learning is learning, though really you should call him Professor Xavier. He does not actively scan people without good cause, but he is still a telepath and you, I think, are not? So you may well be projecting without realizing it. I would be happy to teach you, and perhaps in time even take you to visit. The word is gaje in the masculine and plural, or gaji for you since you are a girl."

"I think the Bald Guy sounds way cooler, though," she returned without the slightest note of complaint in her tone. Xavier was hardly the point here, though. The point was he had totally just agreed to teach her and put a possibility of a field trip out there. Like, an epic field trip because Romani weren't really in the US, were they? "I've never been outside New York. Unless you count Jersey." Her nose wrinkled. "But Jersey is like where New York goes to die so it doesn't count. And, dude, that is awesome. I will be totally attentive and shit. And take notes." She held up her notebook as if to illustrate this point. "I am note taking girl!" Though she wasn't normally quite so enthusiastic about it. Mr. Drake would probably never see Layla like this. She hated math.

"I am glad to hear it", he said cheerfully. "You have a particular interest in languages and other cultures, then?"

"Sorta. I like stories. My mom was big on how everything's just stories. Not just books and those like really boring epic poems but history and cultures and she'd say you couldn't really understand a culture if you didn't understand their language. She said everything looked different if you looked through the same lens the people were. Like...it had a different flavor. Like how Japanese culture made more sense if you knew their language but that their language made more sense if you knew their culture too. Like they fed into one another. But, it's like, the words people have for outsider. Like Native Americans. Or Romani, even. You don't get why they consider Gaji dishonorable until you know all their traditions and beliefs, right? Like, it's one thing to be all 'oh gypsy people are dirty thieves' but another thing to get that they think you're dishonorable so if they need to cheat you or steal from you it's OK because you're a dishonorable person so you don't deserve their, like, respect or whatever, you know? Different lens." There was something bittersweet about the way Layla talked about her mom. Like she missed the woman but didn't want to miss her at the same time. The pain was a lot more fresh for the teenager than people thought it should be. "You can totally tell my mom was a teacher, huh?"

Kurt glanced at her sympathetically, picking up something in her voice on the mention of her mother. "You do seem very knowledgeable", he agreed. "And I have always found it interesting, linguistically, that the Japanese and Romani words for 'outsider' are so similar. Perhaps there is something to the theory that we came from Asia, hm?"

"Are they?" That only piqued Layla's interest further. She thought it would be sort of amazing to learn like twelve different languages and then go travelling around to learn all the weird mythologies and legends and stuff from all their countries. "I thought they thought the Romani came from India, not Japan? But I guess no one actually knows where they came from, huh? How weird is that? Like, everyone else knows where they come from. Except the Jews, right? 'Cause they got like kicked out of everywhere and then took over another country and now they're sorta being dicks to the Arabs, which is pretty fucked up with their history. But like everyone else. Like Moroccans comes from Morocco and the French come from France and the Thai come from Thailand and the Dutch come from...uh...some country that sounds nothing like Dutch so I can never remember it. It's like being an orphan, huh? You don't really belong anywhere and you never know if they'll get sick of you where you are so you could get tossed out on your ass. Wow, that must suck." Not that Layla knew anything about being an orphan ceremoniously tossed out on her ass when people got sick of here, right?

"The Japanese word is gaijin", Kurt told her. "So yes, they are almost the same. My people have always maintained we need no home but our caravans, but sometimes... it is hard being forced to move on at the whim of any local authority. I think that is why we can be so insular, as we are all we have to depend on." He studied the girl for a long moment, then decided to ask. "How long is it since your mother died, Layla?"

All of Layla's exuberance drained from her with the question's asking. It was small things, really. The smile faded from her face which took on a sadly contemplative expression. She slouched further in her chair and her feet slid off the other chair until they were perched on the edge so her knees could come up. She was insulating herself and it was probably just as obvious to her teacher as it wasn't obvious to Layla. When she answered her voice was shockingly quiet considering her rather boisterous tone from a moment before. "It'll be eight years on New Year's. New Year's Day, technically. Like three hours after the ball drops." 3:03 am was the exact time Layla had been told. She had never forgotten that.

"And you have been without a permanent home since then, when you were so young?" he asked just as quietly. "No other family to take you in? You poor girl."

She shrugged, the gesture both careless and dismissive. "I don't want your sympathy, Herr Sefton. It's fine." The small amount of vulnerability that had crept into her voice was pushed out for something more confident sounding. Layla managed to flawlessly sound like she didn't care. "I just move a lot. New house, new room, new family. Every six to twelve-ish months. Sorta like clockwork. At least I never get bored. Everyone else is bored to death of their lives but I don't have to be."

"And yet you have it", he said firmly, not taken in by the act for a moment. "And now you are here, and no one will make you move on ever again."

Layla rolled her eyes, the picture of the disinterested teenager. "Right, we're going to get on with the Care Bear Stare any minute, right? I'll pass. And I'll move on eventually. Six to twelve-ish like clockwork."

Kurt shook his head. "You may not believe it yet, but this place is different. Take it as one orphan to another, if you like."

"Everywhere's different from somewhere. But nowhere's as special and different as it likes to think it is. That's just snowflake syndrome. Bald Guy's just as likely to succumb to Snowflake Syndrome as anyone else. Him and his merry band of worker elves." She gestured to Kurt at the last. The flat tone she used conveyed her disbelief at how shiny and new and different this place was even more than her words did.

Kurt chuckled. "We shall see. I shall remind you that you said this, when you are still here in a year - and if you are not, I know it will not be because you were thrown out. It is a very hard thing to achieve. And now, perhaps it is time to get back to some German."

"Ish," she emphasized. "Twelve-ish months." Layla sat up straighter, though, knees going back down as her feet once again slid over the seat of the chair upon which they perched. She cleared her throat and recited in German, "I am Layla. I am sixteen years old and from the Kitchen of Hell in New York. I have studied German for two years. I sound good but know little words." There was a small quirk at a corner of her mouth before she concluded with, "And I make zombies." She had totally looked up the word for zombies for the first day of school a month ago. News of her mutation had been getting around and she had figured at the time it was better to own it than let people think they could fucking whisper about her everywhere she went.

Kurt raised his eyebrows, impressed and curious at the last part. "A year and a half, then. You have been studying already. Just one correction, it is I sound good but know few words. And did you mean to say you make zombies?"

"I sound good but know few words," she echoed back, committing the words to memory and making a note as well. "And yeah, I meant to say I make zombies. It seems more, uh, accurate than saying I give life."

"Just when I think I know all that mutation can throw at people, it proves me wrong again", he said wryly. "For myself, I am a teleporter. Would you like to tell me more about yourself?"

"There's not much to tell," she told him with a shrug. "I skateboard a lot. I dunno how to say that in German. And...uh...I sing without..." she trailed off and her brow furrowed. "I dunno how to say 'sounding.' I haven't gotten to that tense. But I can sing without sounding like a drowning bird. That's what I was gonna try for there. But then I realized I dunno how to say drowning either. Somehow teachers never think you need words like drowning or screeching or 'oh god my ears!'" Layla paused. "Actually I might be able to figure out that one." She grinned and laughed. "So, hang on. You teleport? Like one second you're here and then poof? You're gone and somewhere else? What is it with pointy eared dudes getting all the cool shit? Is it like a genetic thing? Blonde hair means your mutation blows, pointy ears mean you get cool like claws and disappearing and super human whatsits and a tail." She seemed to notice Kurt's for the first time. She turned her face toward the ceiling and bemoaned, "Why didn't I get a tail?"

"Any specific words or phrases you want to learn, tell me and we will work on them together", Kurt promised. "And if you do not tell anyone, I will teach you the words I am supposed to pretend do not exist." The teenagers always liked those ones. "Do you mean Kyle with the pointy ears, or have you met someone else who has them? And yes, that is how I teleport, although mine is only short range and does come with unfortunate clouds of sulphur so it is not as cool as it might be. Of the other teleporters we have had here, one was a girl with purple skin, one turns into a cloud of gas or smoke... and actually, there was Illyana. She was blonde."

"So I got jipped totally at random? That is so wrong! Other blonde girls can teleport and me, I bring roadkill to life." She threw her hands up in the air and sank in her seat. "That is so unfair. And yes, I mean Kyle. Kyle who is all with the Kitty Superhero gig and who totally overlooked the fact that he's actually a superhero! Isn't that like false advertising? 'Hey girl, you should come to this school that secretly has like vigilante superheroes but we're not gonna tell you about the superheroes yet because I totally suck.' That's like...entrapment." She sulked for all of about five seconds before she completely derailed. "Do you know how to make strudel?"

"Once upon a time, they tell me, the superheroes actually were a secret", Kurt said, laughing, then nodded. "As it happens, I do, and other German dishes as well. Do you?"

"No." She frowned and looked genuinely put out by this. "I can recite the recipe for Satan's Balls, though. Which, uh, I dunno if those are actually German cookies or just a random recipe that got translated into German. It's a Tool song. Die Eier von Satan. So, y'know, kinda self-explanatory by the title, right? You'd think a musician could be a little more creative with the title."

Kurt blinked. "That one, I am not familiar with. Eier can also mean eggs, since we are on the subject, but I think Tool would prefer your version. Perhaps we could exchange the recipes sometime."

"In the spirit of honesty or whatever, I've never actually made them. So they could be terrible. But I know it's a legit recipe and stuff. For, uh....hash cookies." She looked only slightly guilty at the admission. "Which I've never made! And Eggs of Satan makes no sense. And all through the song he's all about 'und keine eier' so calling it Eggs of Satan wouldn't make sense 'cause there's no eggs in it."

"And never will make until you are older and not living under this roof, yes?" He said pointedly, with total disregard of what he actually should be telling her about not doing it at all ever. "I see. Well, even if exchanging recipes is perhaps not so sensible, if you study well I will teach you to cook strudel."

"Seriously?" She was all grinning and beaming at that promise. "Deal. There will be so. much. strudel!" She even bounced a little in her seat, but she would deny that like hell if anyone ever brought it up. "And, dude, no worries Herr Wuschelig, I've got pretty much zero interest in altered states, y'know? 'Cause can you imagine what that shit could do to that whole raising the dead thing I have no control over? What if I have like a bad trip and get all paranoid and then all the dead things come back to life in like a twenty yard radius? That shit is tiring. I could end up in a coma or something. All because I had a hard on for Satan's Balls. I don't need that level of fucked up-ness, danke."

"It often is the case that drugs and mutant powers really, really do not go together", Kurt agreed. "Even alcohol, depending on the powers, or heavy painkillers. I once tried to go to Arlington Cemetery on painkillers and arrived in the Potomac. And some powers, such as precognition, for some reason react oddly to chocolate."

"Thank God I'm not a precognitive person. Schokoladenkuchen und ich sind wie folgt," she told him and held up a hand with her fingers crossed. "Which brings up a very vital question; you know how there's chocolate cake and then there's German chocolate cake? Do you have to like, stipulate that still? Like Deutsch schokoladenkuchen? Or is it just understood that all other chocolate cake is inferior and is not to be referred to at all so even German chocolate cake is just schokoladenkuchen?"

"German chocolate cake is far superior to all other European kinds", he said solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling. "And Black Forest cake is the best of all."

Eyes going wide again, Layla leaned forward over her desk. "I have never had a black forest cake. Is it as, like, chocolate orgasmic as it sounds?"

"Oh, that must be rectified!" he told her in mock-horror. "It is delicious. Chocolate and cherries combined, with as much or little chocolate icing as you like."

He could have just told her that the floor was made of pure gold for the look on Layla's face. "You," she began in German, pointing a finger at Herr Sefton. "I like you and your love for cake." She faux swooned, collapsing onto an arm stretched across her desk and looked up at Herr Sefton with puppy dog eyes. The effect was marred by the eye make up. "Why is class not taught in a kitchen? Oh, oh, do you know how to make Germknödel? I had that once. It was amazing."

He burst out laughing. "I think you speak German better than you gave yourself credit for. You know the word for 'fuzzy' and your grammar is very good. We have a very well equipped kitchen elsewhere in the building, which I will show you after class, and yes I do. My mother loved to bake and believed in self-sufficiency."

"You are my favorite!" she proclaimed. "I'm good at remembering stuff when I like it. And my German teachers have always been pretty cool so I usually pay attention. My teachers just get super frustrated 'cause, uh," she looked around, shifty eyed and slightly guilty, "I never do my homework." Layla was quick to add, "But I still learn stuff! And remember it and shit."

Kurt eyed her consideringly at that. "And why is it you do not do your homework? You can tell me the truth, perhaps I can work with you."

"Because it's boring," she answered, one hundred percent honest. "It's like 'here, conjugate some shit' when I did that in class already and I spend half the class waiting for everyone else to get it because they can't wrap their head around different tenses or like second person formal versus informal. So, like, why should I let you waste my time out of class when you're already wasting my time in class?" Layla pointedly looked around the empty class they were currently in. "Which, okay, maybe not so much an issue here because there aren't idiots not paying attention who can't comprehend the difference between a definite and indefinite article. But still, almost all homework is busy work and I don't believe in busy work. For one, it's sort of rude."

"All right", Kurt said with a smile. "Since we are such a small school, perhaps you are correct and there is not so much need for it with German. Especially since this subject does not involve essays, I think I can make sure you have understood the rules of the language without setting homework."

"Like culinary immersion therapy?" Layla grinned, thinking herself very clever. "Like, say...a recipe for every week of me being a totally model student. Showing up, understanding stuff, doing legit projects when you assign them, stumbling through attempts at conversation? But not just, like, 'hey, here's a recipe.' There needs to be cooking of the recipe and eating of the food or you would be, um... shortchanging my educational experience. Yeah." Her expression turned into a sneaking sort of smile, as if she were up to no good though she clearly wasn't. "Deal?"

"Absolutely," he agreed easily. "Consider it a reward system. I will teach you how to cook one thing for each week you keep to your end."

"Deal." She held out her hand to shake on it.

He reached out gladly to reciprocate, grinning. "I think you and I will get along very well."

"Herr Wuschelig, I'm totally going to be your favorite," Layla declared without an ounce of insincerity.